Heart. The heart. The lump of flesh shaped like the closed fist that pumps out life. What a creation can come close to this. It is the glass. Glass. The glass. The one thing that you are able to see through, thin, yet heavy.
The glass, a fragile object. The heart, equal. The glass can fall and break into tiny pieces, but large ones too. Once broken, it can be fixed, taped or glued, but what remains of the glass? The beauty of a broken glass is like crystals, but they aren't.
The heart? Same. Oh, reader, think why I am writing this. The broken glass has its lines that make up the crystallized look, but the lines never go away. The heart? Same. They become beautiful, and you would never ruin beauty. They become a wonder to look at, like the sun rays of the seas.
The heart? Same. It can be broken, but it is not sensitive. A touch will grant its wish, and the wish will remain taken care of. However, through a broken heart comes the crystal shining in front of your eyes, and you would wish to never hurt it, because ultimately it would be impossible to find the tiny pieces to put it back together.
YOU ARE READING
You Who Knows Best
PoetryThis is a series of love poems written by me. "May we meet where the eye can find its rest, And where our hearts beat for each other, even outside of our breasts."
