Throbbing Soul
Longing as pulse — hope without rescue fantasy.
Longing is not a polite mood. It throbs — craving immense, plea to fate that cannot abate on command.
Lovesick pines for touch, kiss, love worth finding. Passion thirsts. Desire stays hired.
Hope springs because the body insists — beacon, flame that flickers and returns. Not rescue. Refusal to quit.
Languish in despair is accurate. Heart still strong enough to endure the ache without calling endurance virtue.
Every thought of love speeds the pulse. Wings of dove is declined. Accurate is muscle remembering what it wanted.
Embrace longing without auditioning for tragedy. Joy akin is possible inside the same mouth as pain.
Perseverance remains. So does the throb.
The soul still pulses. You still carry the ache and continue.
JV · Dark Heart Labs