Heart Maps

If you drew a line between me and mine, it would be blurred at the edges and strong at its center. 

I think that is what time does

It expels love from our soul and deposits it and the center of whatever universe inclines us, like a center of mass. 

Like a center of love. 

If you further stretched out this line, it would curve out to be a parenthesis. 

To its left and right. 

In these curves, I think, time fails to work. 

They are a mockery of my youth, these lines.

They sell me words and promises and shield me from a world that smuggles them.

Regardless, this bend is special

I sit here endlessly, in a warm cocoon. 

Stories come to me here, sometimes like wind or other times like wax. 

My canvas reeks of new tales that I paint everyday. 

They are quick to fade. 

And when you stretch out these lines a little more, it would make a complete heart, coming back to me. 

Hardest to carve out, easiest to fade away. 

Made of an artist's notes, they flee in and out of my heart like thrips in flashing lights. 

When the world is ill and hidden, this feels like a twisted remedy. 

A song to celebrate life. Another, to mourn loss. 

I trust these lines the most anyway. 

Moonbound, I think to myself. They come back to me even when my center of mass collides.