“soft corners are the residue of love”
(a fragment of what once was)
(a prickling shard of glass so deep the skin eats it whole)
a souvenir perhaps, love calling out - “i was here.”
residue of love, perhaps leftovers of a meal,
rotten or ripe, bittersweet or sour,
in the crevices of decked up designer plates
for when the guests come and we lay them out,
they see what once fit between them,
what once fed an empty stomach,
now leaves you starving.
the residue of love —
it sits on the tongue like a bad aftertaste you can’t swallow,
like a cavity in your tooth you can’t uproot from its socket.
you see, the beauty of a human heart is -
it’s all flesh, curved at every valve
directing the blood to flow in one direction
(never backwards)
what i’m trying to say is,
soft corners are residue of where love was once,
but they are never love itself.
for love has never been soft,
love is always rushing, always raging through veins.
once softened,
a heart fails at doing the very thing it is meant to do —
to be alive.
and the may bloodstains be residual,
but what is blood if not flowing through your veins?
the residue of love - is never love itself.