Dead hearts don’t beat,
Just strive to remember how.
When time stops,
Memories overlap like autumn leaves;
They mix and combine,
Suffuse each other with irregular somethings,
Tiny flecks of uncertainties,
Fiddling for those moments most precious
From that veil of lost things,
Lost hopes,
Lost forevers.
They wait for something to stir them,
Move them,
Force them to remember.
And when they do,
When those snippets of eternity return,
They’ll clasp them close, impassioned.
It is a waiting game,
That’s all,
Waiting for that pulse,
That rhythm of life,
That love,
That spark;
It consumes them,
As you consume me.