The heart is a terrifying thing, it does not turn with the seasons, it does not flow with the tide, it is not captured by the moon. It starts and stops like an fickle engine. It trusts and rusts like a beat earthed deep inside the ground-a hint of it’s purple pulse overshadowed by wilted leaves. It’s resilient like a colicky toddler. It’s scaled in elasticity. The heart burns like a contraction only to give birth to things we can only hope are greater-things with endless light and limitless possibility.