Words don’t have to rhyme,
and neither does the heart.
It can skip a few beats,
yet will still start.
They flow like wandering waves,
pressing against the sandy shore—
never the same wave twice,
but always knocking at the same door.
And as that door opens up,
so does the heart that endlessly beats,
quietly and soundly echoing,
waking all who’d fallen fast asleep.
Waves pressed against their hearts,
flowing pleasantly on yet another rainy day.
And even if their words don’t always rhyme,
at least the heart is in the right place—