Pulse
There is an exquisite pain in love, given so often to those who cannot see our hearts offered, cannot perceive the devotion dripping from the open artery of our affections.
Our hearts, like glass, are easily broken; just so, they are equally difficult to piece back together.
There are times when one’s own heartbeat is suffocating, breath itself not enough to drown out the deafening, ceaseless drumbeat.
A sensation of drowning in and of oneself, being engulfed by human misery and the thoughts that run relentless within the mind.
Of thinking would have could have should have instead of acting; paralytic anxiety at doing the wrong thing prevents us from doing anything at all.
We give ourselves to platitudes, longing for more but failing to seek out true connection.
We lie so that our own feelings may be spared, cowards beneath the bars that others set for us.
I remember the rain, my shoe landing in a puddle that broke in frenzied concentric rings, the sock becoming drenched with runoff, staining the white fabric grey.
Breath pluming out before me, abandoning my heart behind me, fading into the gray wet mist, alone.
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Posted Aug 11, 2019, 2:08 AM UTC
The pulse concept works until about a third of the way through, when you start with the 'would have' line. The rain's not a bad follow-up, but it's a bit cliche, and I'd have liked to see more of the pulse relating in the last bits. I'd also consider the use of color throughout, and spruce that up a bit - the color of blood before and after leaving the body, for example.