Distant Pulse

Somewhere, a heart hammers out a rhythm, insistent and strong,
But here, in this room, the pulse is lost, the beat all wrong.
Once, love was a wave that shattered silence, a noise that broke the night,
Now, it’s a barely-there hum, the echo of a fight.
Lips move in conversation, but every word evaporates before it’s heard,
The distance between bodies measured not in inches, but in what’s never inferred.
No hand reaches out, no prayer finds its god,
Faith shrivels in the absence, hope trampled in the sod.

Long ago, they built a fire and danced naked in its light,
Now, only ashes remain, gray in the moon, ignored by the night.
Even memories are numb, blurred by repetition,
Desire gone on permanent intermission.
Closeness is an act, a bedtime story told to children who refuse to sleep,
No one is fooled, not even the lovers themselves–loss runs too deep.
Sex is a performance: bodies touch, sweat mixes, but nothing breaks through,
The mind wanders, the heart stays out of view.

Each day is another drift, another piece lost to the sea,
The distant pulse is just biology, not intimacy.
No one comes home, no one is met at the door,
The world outside moves fast, but inside, everything is a chore.
Love is something that happened once, a song outgrown,
Now the only heartbeat is the one heard alone.