Tried.

her favorite time of night is when the black-blue bruise of sky is too dark;
when the crystalline moon retreats behind the clouds in surrender.

she snuggles against his chest, listening, listening, listening -

there it is, the th-thump of his heart, murmuring beneath his chestbone.
she breathes slowly until her own pulse falls in time with his, and
looks up and whispers:

"hey, listen. do you hear that?"

he sighs, lifting his chin. "hear what?"

her eyes are marble beneath the lids. "our hearts. they're beating together.
do you hear them? it's like a song, like my favorite lullaby-"

he cuts her off. "no. i don't hear anything."





Valentine's Day isn't good enough.