I’m not sure how I would have cracked my heart open wide enough to let all of me in
If you hadn’t pried it open with bloodied fingertips
If the song of your breath hadn’t frozen like the body of a sparrow
If the pulse of your silence wasn’t screaming that there’s a person in my house who’s dying
But wants to live
Don’t we all want to live?
If this were about relationship there would be a manual to consult in the manufacturers guide
There’s no survivors guide to the heart only the faith of a baby who will wrap her translucent hand around the finger of anyone close enough to touch
The medicine of the soul isn’t medicine at all, or a path, or even a crossing. It’s a hand you grab onto because you at least are still alive and cannot help knowing it