Constellations Of The Broken Heart Poem by Savva Emanon

I'd cut my soul, oh yes, my soul,
into a million glimmering shards of fire,
and fling them skyward with trembling hands
to form a constellation you might name Desire.
A compass made of wound and will,
to guide you home through storm and still.

Each fragment, bright with ache and grace,
would hum with hymns from long-lost place,
where memory meets the marrow's song,
and even silence learns to belong.
I'd stitch the sky with every piece,
until your sadness found release.

And should you tremble in the dark,
loathe the lines upon your face,
or scorn the parts you'd dare not mark,
I'd kneel before that tender space.
With ink made from my bleeding trust,
I'd write sonnets into your stardust.

To the furrowed brow, the shame you hide,
the corners where your fears reside,
I'd sing. Not of perfection's light,
but of your jagged, holy night.
Of crooked teeth and childhood scars,
of all that makes you who you are.

I'd stand, yes, still, in shadow's keep,
beside the ghosts you try to sweep,
and whisper, "Love, I do not flee,
your night has always sheltered me."
For dark is not the end of light,
but where stars dream themselves alight.

So let me burn, if burn I must,
my soul a lantern wrought from trust.
And know, though storms may steal your flame,
my light will spell your secret name.
And guide you, love, through fear and moan,
a constellation to lead you home.