Tonight,
I sit in a quiet room,
soft light filling the corner of the space,
persistent rain falling in a constant drizzle outside the window.
Silence.
There is a stillness in the air that calls for breath and closeness,
and I take a moment to reconnect with my own beating pulse,
this thing that I have taken for granted, left unseen,
this drumming lump in my throat,
not noticed or felt,
gone months without sensing,
without touching,
without pinpointing with curious fingertips,
though it is mine and mine only;
my own beating,
the inner tempo that moves through me,
the pulse of how I inhale and exhale each
living breath that involuntarily speaks whispers into the night air.
My pulse.
I take it, the cadence of my chest,
the drum taps that keep my thoughts in time.
Pulse,
Even just the word sounds like...
Pulse.
Pulse.
Pulse,
in its solitary syllable,
it takes a rhythm that begs for repetition,
hangs in expectation for another, imminent,
Pulse,
internal metronome of fluid life force pumping
red through veins and arteries to heart, and back again,
Pulse,
it is perpetual movement of my body
even in absolute stillness,
the unceasing flow of life underneath my skin,
Pulse,
when is the last time you stopped and felt
the speed by which you move at rest?
Pulse,
Take a few seconds to reconnect
with the trail of your heart
as it finds every pathway through you,
Pulse,
silence everything around you
that creates noise, that sings dissonance
in shrills to your ears, that breeds chaos,
Pulse,
and just listen to the sound that your
beautiful
beating
heart
makes against the night.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Pulse.
