It was not in the road that took me there but the way my heart always remained the same rushing through college corridors, open dissection tables, woodwork poetry breathren.
Indestructible construction of these cerebral plates left me the mind of a surgeon and the heart of a poet.
In the cold operating room they cut open his chest- blood gushing out and I could see why sometimes a little hurt could cause a lot of noise. Ventricle, atrium. A nick that ricocheted, a word that spelled goodbye.
There was a rhythm in his heart and for once I could feel synchronicity was never so beautiful; almost teary-eyed I could find those verses lost between the veins, quietude pumping out slowly.
Lost in the mistranslation of his chest till the nurse said