Wreckage

The remains of a young heart

Sometimes, looking back reveals the remains of a heart that dared to trust in love.

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Wreckage

I still carry love.

Tattooed on my skin 
like a forgotten scar.
So faint now.
So buried and blurry.

Sometimes, I look back 
at that reckless heart,
and it stares back.
So puzzled.
So young and teary.

The moments it felt 
it wouldn’t survive,
torn apart by pitiless truths,
or trembling behind chosen lies.

Pleading 
for mercy.
Asking for meaning 
I still can’t give.

How could the love 
that was meant 
to keep my steps light, 
my fears at bay,
my smile flowing 
like carefree butterflies,
how could it burn so much?

How could the sweetest of words
carry the sting of imminent loss?

How could I not see it come?

The mess.
The strength draining out of my legs,
with no place to rest.
The unnoticed tears shed 
until I dried.
Until I vanished into the dark. 

How could the wreckage of a young heart
even be called
love?

Before disillusion, there is always a younger version of us
that believed without hesitation. That version still lives in The Fall.

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P.S. If I am new to you, you are invited to know a little about me here: The Woman Behind the Muse - Timeless Muse.

With love,

www.timelessmuse.com

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Original copyrighted work. © Yorlene Vega