The Same Rhythm
His heart is a black lump in his chest. It has seen and lost love and felt the thin, icy fingers of love at work wrap tightly around it, suffocating it.
All that remains of a once alive, red, beating heart is a broken, cynical corpse. All that remains is seething pain and hatred.
Her heart is blackened by her view of love. The perfect emotion she had dreamed of as a child has given her nothing but wasted time and loneliness. She has learnt that the child she had been was naïve and so very wrong.
Love is not perfect, nor is it easy. It is far from it. It is blunt and sharp and hot and cold.
Together, their hearts pound to the same deadly rhythm.