She lay upon the dissection table,
her heart laid open,
her blood grown cold—
while her words still bled
through an endless winter of silence.
The memories gathered around him,
staring with knitted brows
and lips forever sealed,
as though they knew
what neither of them had spoken.
With trembling hands
he began to read
the unseen history of her soul,
each wound a sentence,
each scar a forgotten chapter,
each vein preserving
the map of a love
that had outlived its own heartbeat.
The scattered pieces of her mind
overflowed with love,
yet drifted past him
like rain withheld by reluctant clouds—
a monsoon that never found
the courage to fall.
The showers of her dreams
remained knotted
within the sacred rites
of duty, silence, and surrender.
Each hope she buried alive
returned as an echo,
circling the shores
of a mesmerizing lake of pain,
where her passion endured
not as freedom,
but as captivity.
Her poems waited patiently,
page after page,
for a single answer,
for the warmth of a listening heart.
But he searched too late,
holding every verse
like an unfinished confession.
The postmortem was complete.
The body revealed nothing
the heart had not already endured.
Only then did he realize
that love leaves no evidence
beneath the surgeon's blade.
It hides instead
between unfinished poems,
unfallen rain,
sealed lips,
and the key
he never knew he carried.
