(Again, poetry and artwork-such as it is-by Jody Noelle Coughlin)
She held the heart in her hands.
It was motionless and still.
She looked down upon it from up above.
Resting there, within her lap, it asked questions like a child.
There are no answers was her reply, for why you hurt the way you do.
She held it closer still.
Leave the questions for another day and rest inside my life.
She said.
Just rest inside my life.
She would not move to sever the glue from the sacred place where her heart grew.
It wasn't because she didn't love you.
It was a consequence, true.
And she didn't want to hurt in the places that she knew.
Where it grew.
Her love-for you.
She remained.
Motionless and still.
And the dead are all dead.
Just the same.
And the red are all red.
Just the same.
And the fire still burns.
And the trees still grow.
And the birds still sing.
And the world still spins.
And the heart still beats.
Just the same.
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