hearts are genuine yet they sometimes lie. they often love the way it carves memory in me and bury them under my skin until it’s no longer possible to forget. i have been told i can live eternally even just through the heartbeats; that i am already living light-years away just because someone is whispering my name into places i’m tempted to jump in. i have been told i can tear down walls through the traces i have in my palms. i have been under of stories of a thousand souls that sometimes i couldn’t even find a way out. i love the way they put ruins around my neck and breathe their words through it. they are often in the edge waving hands asking me to hold them and i will go cross the line until i find myself hanging and just living through their sighs.
hearts are breakable but you can’t see them bleeding; some are naive, some are artless but they all are real. sometimes, i hate that they are real. the way they will finally forget the graves they used to grieve upon and all the verses they used to recite for the sake of being genuine. the way they will wake up and no longer feel the old, familiar aches anymore and will just choose to lose the rosemaries i have grown in my skin. and i will be left there standing, unmoved, and dying by the thought that changes are too natural to keep hearts. some hearts used to scream and when they’ve grown quiet, it’s still them. your heart used to scream and when you’ve grown apart, i barely know your name. i used to offer grief every time hearts forget. i used to die when they say they’ve killed the way they carve my name. i used to hate the way a heart beats. and now, i've seen hearts breaking stepping away from the edge. i’ve also seen yours moving and i don’t even blink. with the touch of two-day-old winter, i tore my skin up where i used to lay memories and realized i almost forgot them. i can still feel our hearts beating; the pains are still hiding in between of my veins but now, all the heartbeats sound just the same. that’s when i cry to finally understand that the hearts—
even ours, we can’t ever keep them unchanged.
— 03:59 l. sin, 153 old rosemary
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»» photo (without the words in it) taken from Jessica Woods
