slow-motion butterfly wings,
chopper blades magnified until they're dulled,
a heartbeat
hidden in the pockets of the world.

i follow its pattern,
peaks and valleys,
still, i am no closer,
proximity is out of bounds.
who? who owns this sound?

my chest races, the organ inside
compelled to react, enact a return call.
i've swallowed too much breath, not enough space,
and my ears thunder with the truth
of the rhythm of my heart.

{my heart or yours? somehow, ours.}

i catch up, and our music embraces,
pieces fitting together,
loosely, closely, it's all the same.

same. (i always thought i was different
and now, here we are,

the same difference.)