till the next heartbeat

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If I were to call you a shape, 
you’d be half of a rhombus, 
the incompleteness of infinity, 
the emptiness of a circle,
and the other half of a square, 
staring down the barrel,
of a fully loaded cannon,
in a field you have completely to yourself. 
I refuse to stand there,
and breathe down your neck. 

There’s a door to your left, 
wide open and inviting, 
the kind of heartbeat, 
that fills up your day, all of your day; 
loud laughter and music, 
the warmth on a chilly Sunday evening, 
the sunset on a day 
you thought would never end, 
and music, that reminds you how to dance. 
you have 14 keys to that door, 
you refuse to enter. 

There’s a door to your right, 
locked, loud and uninviting, 
sounds you cannot understand, 
a silence you don’t want to hear.
and you cannot wait to whisper 
on the other side. 
Is silence the lack of words
or the space between them? 
there are 13 locks on the door, 
you don’t have a single key to them, 
yet you refuse to not enter, 
as you hurl your upper shoulder against it, 
harder every single time, 
your blood boils so hard,
it numbs your brain, 
and the universe has to scream your name 
to stop. 

on a chilly Wednesday evening like today,
you chose to forget the door on your left, 
and sketch the one on your right, 
on 19 different pages, 
you break the lock in 11 sketches, 
and enter the room in none. 
//maybe for you, it was never about the room, 
it was always the lock. 
sometimes, I wonder 
if you felt that about my heart too.

//till the next heartbeat 


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