Fossilized Heartbeats

We are not made of metaphors,

yet here I am—

splitting my ribs like shale,

letting you sift through the sediment

of every almost and what if

I’ve buried.

Love is a slow archaeology:

your hands, brushes

dusting off the fossils of my fears—

each brittle no becoming a yes

under your patience.

I trace the strata of your skin,

read epochs in your scars.

You say my laughter is a quarry

where light fractures into prismatic silence,

and I believe you.

We’ve memorized erosion—

how storms gnaw coastlines,

how doubt wears down resolve.

But tonight, your voice is a river

rearranging my bedrock,

carrying continents in its current.

Some say love is a spark.

Ours is the grind of tectonic plates,

a friction that births mountains,

roots deep enough to fist the magma

of our unspoken truths.

When the world quakes,

we become fault lines—

cracks where wildflowers stubbornly rise,

their petals spelling still here

in a language only ruin understands.

And if we fossilize someday,

let our skeletons curl like cursive

into stone. Let some future soul

split us open and gasp

at the marrow’s glow—

proof that even stars leave dust

that loves enough to become soil.

Ending Note:

Because the heart’s geology outlives every extinction.