“One need not be a chamber – to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors – surpassing Material place. . Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror’s least.”Emily Dickinson
Love came around on a Sunday afternoon.
A time when trees whispered sweet nothings to the wind
and her heart sung to the tune of another’s voice.
A time when faint lines danced across his face,
chasing the laughter and the smiles in criss-cross patterns of happiness,
when butterflies stormed in her belly after
having been awakened by the vibrant thumpthumpthump of his heart.
But heartbreak always comes with Monday morning.
A time when the muscles between her ribs ached for
a breath of relief from the constant holding of air.
A time where his lungs wished to be pushed into the deep
so that they may only feel the water and not the emptiness,
when the butterflies sunk down to her toes under the weight
of the splintered remains of his broken heart.
So love came around on a Sunday afternoon,
and suffocated on a Saturday morning.