Why is it that as others weave tales of love, their eyes alight with starlight, their smiles painting a picture of utmost bliss?
They narrate tales of love with symphonies of joy and anticipation.
Yet, why do I find myself in a different narrative?
Instead of butterflies fluttering in euphoria, I am engulfed by shadows, a dagger slowly carving hollows in my being.
If indeed your heart beats not in rhythm with mine, if love does not reside in your heart for me, could you aid me in the art of erasing you from my existence?
YOU ARE READING
Only My Heart Knows
PoesiaWithin this anthology lies a tapestry of verses penned by Jcena Mortiff, each intricately woven around diverse manifestations of love. These words ache to break the shackles of confinement, the very letters thirst for emancipation, all plucked from...
