“that stubborn muscle.”

For quiet, rainy Sundays (I’m sorry, truly sorry, for my nostalgic heart);

i.

What I’m saying is my heart,

that stubborn muscle, has learned
the wild cadences of your music; I’m saying
even when your echo fades away,
it dances on.
– Lauren Kizi-Ann Alleyne, On the Illusion of Closure

ii.

Every poem about fire,
about destruction,
about the flaming house
& all the little children
locked inside. Every poem
about loss. Every poem
a house to trap you in.
Every poem I set on fire
with you inside.
– Moriah Pearson, Every Poem

iii.

I no longer write
the way that I used to. My heart
was different then.
– I Can Barely Feel It Beating | quitethefallacy

iv.

I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?
– Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
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One thought on ““that stubborn muscle.”

  1. Nostalgic hearts have an elegance of their own, even though sometimes they try to harm their owner like an autoimmunity mechanism :P Beautiful post when it comes to that stubborn muscle that ofter riots on rainy quiet *lonely* Sundays!

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