When the Heart Knits Its Own Wound
My heart hurts today—
a thin, quiet ache that slides
between the ribs like a trembling thread,
the colour of yesterday’s rain‑washed sky.
It hums a low, unsteady chord,
a reminder that the world can bruise
the softest of things with a single, careless word,
or with the empty echo of a door that never opens.
I feel it in the spaces between breaths,
in the way the coffee cools on the table,
in the way the sunlight catches
the dust motes that dance, unnoticed,
until one lands on the edge of a cracked photograph.
There is a throb, a pulse,
a tiny drumbeat that insists
on being heard in the silence of the house,
in the sigh of the wind through cracked windows,
in the soft, relentless ticking of the clock.
But in this hurting there is a fierce tenderness—
the heart, bruised, still beats,
still gathers the shards of broken moments
and weaves them into a thin filament of hope.
It knows that pain is a kind of remembering,
a way of honoring the love that once filled the chest
and the love that still lingers, though hidden,
like a seed beneath winter’s frost.
So I sit with this ache,
let the ache settle like sediment,
and I watch as the light shifts,
as the world turns, indifferent and kind.
My heart hurts today, but it also remembers
the way it once sang, and the way it will learn
to sing again—softer perhaps, but still
a song of being alive.