The Heart Follows Barefoot

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

You can change your sheets,
your city, the side of the bed
you sleep on. You can throw
his jacket out, delete
the thread, cut your hair
in a new moon and still—
the heart will follow,
barefoot,
without asking permission.

It will wait in the kitchen,
in the way you reach
for a second cup,
though no one is there
to ask if you want sugar.
It will hum in your throat
when a stranger wears
his cologne.

You can run to the coast,
call it reinvention,
walk until your blisters
become maps—
but the heart is not
so easily lost.

It speaks in migraines.
In the itch of a name
you’ve sworn never to say.
It remembers the way
his voice folded
around your name
like cloth in a drawer.
You hear it
in the pause
between two raindrops.

So listen—
not because you want to,
but because silence
costs more
than staying.

The heart does not forget.
It only waits
until you are quiet
enough
to hear it say:
Begin again.