Her heart played like a lyric,
A single note and tone,
Thumping against her chest in torturous musicality,
Twisting around syllables and meanings,
Cooing to injured birds and children like mothers,
Thrumming in time with the strings.

It was brittle and smooth,
Still and moving,
Felt hot and heavy in her hands,
Brought tears to her eyes,
That burnt down her cheeks hotly,
...And made her feel once again.

Love,
What an ominous and infinite word,
Her heart played like a lyric,
And that lyric was from a love song,
Curled in angelic symphony,
And always waiting for the other chord to hit,
Like destiny.

She danced to her own soothing sound,
Humming madly to nothingness as if she were born to,
And held on to sound,
As if she were back in her mother's womb,
Happy then like she was there,
To hear the same inherited soothing note.

Her heart was a thief,
Pulled words from her soul without precedence or apology,
Trailed subtle blissful fingertips down her sculpted and aching jaw,
As she sung for hours,
To please her hungry heart,
Which she loved with heartfelt narcissism...

But never could quench the thirst for more.