Before the world learned sound,
before breath learned its rhythm
and voices learned their shape—
the heart was the first to speak.
It spoke in quiet thunder,
in secret tides beneath the ribs,
in a language older
than any word we’ve ever trusted.
The heart is not red—
it is every color of the life it has survived:
blue with longing,
gold with courage,
silver with the scars of becoming,
and black in the places it had to close
to keep breathing.
It is the universe’s smallest drum,
yet the loudest truth we carry.
It beats in the dark
long before we learn our names,
and it keeps beating
long after the world has tried
to rename us.
The heart remembers everything—
even the things we pretend we forgot:
the soft goodbyes,
the careless words,
the promises that shook
like frightened stars.
But still it rises.
Still it opens.
Still it sings.
Because the heart knows the secret
the mind is too afraid to whisper:
To feel is not a weakness—
it is the only proof we are alive.
And when love breaks it,
the heart does not shatter—
it becomes deeper.
When silence surrounds it,
it does not freeze—
it learns to listen.
When the world overwhelms it,
the heart does not run—
it returns to its own steady flame.
So if you ask what is most special,
what is most holy,
what the poets across centuries
have really tried to say—
It is this:
The heart is the one place
where everything we have ever lost
is still somehow alive,
and everything we hope for
is already learning to grow.
And that—
more than any song,
any dream,
any word ever written—
is why the heart
is the greatest poem
the universe has ever made.
-JL