Shadow, shadow, the heart says,
racing itself, racing the rain.
You are the side I seldom
turn to, though we glide down
the same halls every day
and you confide in me
as if light held an answer.
If there are answers,
I am learning them slowly,
learning to trust
what the tongue cannot say.
The heart by some other name
would be a simpler mechanism,
its echoes reverberating
less wildly.
Call it a blood pump
and it loses its voice,
that husky whisper you hear
in your sleep. No,
I have no answers, only
the slower pulse by which
I live now, at peace,
the only sign of the past
a risky murmur.
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