Heart nowadays, oh me days,
it’s no longer asking how you are,
it’s stitching bandages over silence,
guarding its own pulse,
wrapping itself in quiet armor.
It’s platonic, filled with tonics of
it’s just me and my household,
a small circle, a soft shelter,
the only place that still feels like truth.
Closing the door gently,
pretending the world outside can’t bruise anymore.
Love has become a quiet visitor,
knocking only when the lights are off,
whispering, “are you still holding on?”
And I answer with tired laughter,
the kind that tastes like rain on old wounds.
We’ve learned to heal in corners,
to breathe in small rooms,
to stretch our softness without breaking.
The world has grown loud and loveless,
so the heart learns to whisper,
to rest in its own calm corner,
to choose peace over proving,
presence over performance.
Because nowadays hearts don’t ask for permission
they just learn to survive,
to beat in their own lonely rhythm,
to gather strength from the simple fact
that we are still here,
still rising,
still choosing to feel
even when the world says,
“feel less.”
©️ Dibang Mary
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 11:28 PM UTC
Heart nowadays, oh me days,
it’s no longer asking how you are,
it’s stitching bandages over silence,
guarding its own pulse,
wrapping itself in quiet armor.
It’s platonic, filled with tonics of
it’s just me and my household,
a small circle, a soft shelter,
the only place that still feels like truth.
Closing the door gently,
pretending the world outside can’t bruise anymore.
Love has become a quiet visitor,
knocking only when the lights are off,
whispering, “are you still holding on?”
And I answer with tired laughter,
the kind that tastes like rain on old wounds.
We’ve learned to heal in corners,
to breathe in small rooms,
to stretch our softness without breaking.
The world has grown loud and loveless,
so the heart learns to whisper,
to rest in its own calm corner,
to choose peace over proving,
presence over performance.
Because nowadays hearts don’t ask for permission
they just learn to survive,
to beat in their own lonely rhythm,
to gather strength from the simple fact
that we are still here,
still rising,
still choosing to feel
even when the world says,
“feel less.”
©️ Dibang Mary