Sometimes I feel these drips from my heart.
If you can picture it.
As if something or someone has a good strong hold on it and clenches it,
My heart,
But in a good way,
I think anyway.
And the tendrils and the drops begin to melt down from its very bottom,
Exposing and revealing the very nature of the true thing,
To me,
To me only,
I think.
I feel it though.
Like a real and tangible thing, that if you were to look at me you would say,
Oh, see her,
Yes, her heart is dripping,
And you would say it because of your memory of when your heart dripped too.