Put your fingers into my chest, beneath my sternum, and with the gentlest caress, pull from me the chords of my heartbreak. Splay them over your operating table and press them between the pages of your favourite book. Take up brush, take up song, take up pen, tell me how you read them.
Is it real to you? Are the melodies of my heartstrings visible enough? Are they true?
Turn back to me from your workstation, your creative niche, your personal space, and explain to me that I am cold and broken for a good reason, that beneath it all, there's a solid beating heart, hot and passionate and brave. Then press your bloody fingers to mine and remind me that there are songs I still have left. Trace a path down my face with my own blood, and bring your lips to mine. Show me the proof. Don't put yourself on a pedestal, because I might knock you down in my self pity. Just stare into my eyes, hold my hand and pull my close. Talk to me about never being alone.
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