He crashed into the soft top surface of my heart, disturbing the whole thing down to my core. Only took me a decade to realise it happened the second I saw him. One minute he’s a flash before my eyes, the next my life has changed, never to be the same again.
And you mean to tell me this piece of rock from the cosmos, this core-shaking matter is moved by me too! The observers in my heart report of signs of impact where he’s landed. Where the edges of his crater form there are marks on his surface.
My heart’s a different place since he’s landed. Softer still, yet firmer. I never thought I’d be thanking a foreign object for a sense of stability with any amount of inner peace yet here I am, calm as still waters. Waters stiller than they were before the waves that rippled across their surfaces after his impact.
Can I truly say I’m grateful to be changed? Not in that way where you accept that the pain comes with lessons, but like a plant getting watered for the first time.
The piece of him beckoning me, insisting I have a piece of me stuck in his heart too. Why do I believe him? Why do I know this more surely than I know my own name and face? He’s clearly a part of me, like the space he carved was meant to be for him always. Insisting I’m a part of him too. What is this?
Is my life really changed for the better because his meteor crash landed on my heart’s soft earth? I am doomed to be blessed by our love forever? Must I really be refined through the fires of our passion? Can I deny my hunger for this?
Can I surrender to my heart’s changing, opening up to itself now?















