Lies, literally.

Hearts are not hearts
are not noise
are not saviors
are not pie and whipping cream
are not broken crayons mushed and nearly colorless
are not sunsets
are not letters
are not dew and the smell of warming air
are not birds chirps and trills
are not swirls and sailing pallettes of lined paper
are not christmas carols that I only know the first verse too
are not every note on the piano cello clarinet guitar banjo periwinkles
are not the guts to give your name and number and skin and bones and garbage to all the people you will never know
are not the things that you will always know.

Hearts are always where you want to go.

Hearts are never fast or slow.

Hearts will never rhyme, you know.
Because hearts beat whether we tell them to
or not