There, just there, under his heart
is where it began,
an odd stirring and warm.
Slow, steady, not the crazed gallop
as when heroin was his false idol.
This felt like loving a good woman,
like being understood,
like being accepted.

His memories rushed in to fill
the empty places of his mind.
He’d last felt this stirring as a boy
before his life went to hell.
Before he decided to live there awhile,
before the scars on his arms.

Now, slow as ice, he felt content with himself,
with the world.
Like he could live without idols.
Happy is what it was.
Just content with the slow, steady
beat of his heart.