Have you ever performed an autopsy on your own heart?
I have a cursed sickness, a yearning for a longing heart. But as a yearning, it has yet attained what it wants.
With shaking hands, I began my autopsy.
A heart full of what ifs, its most favorite thing. Hopes, dreams, and what could have been.
A heart that bleeding memories, its treasured vault. A room of remembrance—of the touch, kisses, hugs, words, and sweet nothings.
A heart that grieving, its tokens souvenirs. A bittersweet proof that the heart was once loved.
A swollen blue heart, its protective ache. The inability to heal itself, grounded by its wound.
A beating heart echoed the very soul of its owner, him—the one that got away.
A heart that chants its eternal divine, as its last act of love for him—prayers.
A heart that keeps yearning for something that no longer longs for it.
A heart that still waiting, for him who already found his new home.
