There’s something sad about the melancholy beat of one’s heart. While there is no definite beginning to its cycle, the very last thud will rip the most miserable of pangs through the chests of everyone near. That one little organ will go through the toughest of times over the span of a human life. Its alarming speed when two lips meet for the first time, or its near inactivity when enveloped in the warm calmness of NREM slumber. Some might be clogged with poor meal decisions, and others might be worked to the verge of near exhaustion.
My heart likes it when you whisper sweet things to me, when you touch me, when you tell me you adore me. You keep it happy. My heart would very much like it if you stuck around.
It’s kind of funny how love makes poets of us.
I once heard that love is humbling. It’s frightening how much a romantic relationship exposes you to another person. You let them see your hopes and dreams and fears and insecurities. You can tear off your clothes and have sex with anybody, but you are only truly naked when those delicate subjects are finally unearthed. So it wasn’t just the times we pleasured each other in the seclusion of your bedroom, but the nights we cried into the phone about our hearts’ troubles. There were only a few select times that I could visualize the walls breaking down, and I could finally peel away at your layers of flesh until I found my way to your heart. It gets a little tough at the ribcage, but I think I’ll soon be able to make my way through.