I didn’t pay heaven’s worth for one hell of a ride— for all the
Valentine cards, I’m just calling their bluff. What’s carved into
stone is too heavy to skip across the rivers of my chest; love
sinks deeper than it pretends to float. A carousel of emotions
spins; all its horses in place— some only love horsing around.
Round and round it goes; the painted smile, waiting for
the cycle to end, for the spell of tomorrow to break.

So I write letters to the future, hopes tangled in snares of my
doubts. The tongue—sharp as steel, soft as silk—knows how
to give life, and *******. We cover scars with scars, as the
extending arm, just to say we’re armed, clutching too many
guns inside our ribs. But how can blessings hold on when
your hands stay hidden, when you wear a balaclava over
your smile?

Harvest comes only from what you’ve planted—patience,
honesty, or silence. Soil on the tongue buries every word
that could have fed us.

So tell me—was heaven’s worth ever meant for one
hell of a ride?