The Heathcliff In Us Poem by somolekha sur

Heathcliff stands like a storm
gathered in the hollow of the moors,
the wind tasting of iron and rain,
a sky torn open by longing.

His love is not gentle.
It drags like roots beneath the soil,
grips like frost against a windowpane,
a hunger carved deep into bone.

He does not speak of tenderness
but of possession, of eternity,
of two souls
not touching,
but bleeding into each other.

His eyes hold the weight
of graves and promises,
a grief so vast
it builds a house out of shadows.

Catherine's name
is the only light he carries,
burning even as it devours him,
a fire that will not die,
even in death.