From here, you can see my epicardium, coated in bookish quotes and names of playlists that have yet to be made.
The smell of honey crisp apples and Floridian orange groves fades in through the in-repair-windows and if you look closely inside, you’ll see faces of old ghosts, long since forgotten.
From this angle, things look sewn together with careful passion, well loved and almost Arcadian.
Climb the staircase to my left atrium and you’ll see my sister, tangled in laughter and spite, colliding into oceans she makes out of our father’s eyes.
Her skin whispers melodies and you can’t help but sink into her sunlight.
Follow the photograph lined ceiling to the aortic valve. Watch as nineteen years of frozen moments pass you by, my entire life becoming just seconds in yours.
My pulmonary veins are encased in glass, the ink that flows through them on display.
Walking down the hallway and into the right ventricle, my mother will welcome you with chestnut smiles and a lavender embrace.
Though her heartbeat has since weakened and stilled, she resides in the strongest part of mine.
This is my home. It’s all intensely delicate. Enjoy your stay.
Your writing never ceases to fill my heart, truly amazing.