Tiny hearts sway,
tender and waiting.
Each one hangs with trembling desire,
a yearning hope;
that one day a hand will reach,
and pluck it gently from the frigid chill.
Drawing it near,
love itself will blossom.
Pale petals stained by shadow,
bruises on delicate skin.
I wait for love to unfurl for me,
but it slips through my fingers
yet again.
Roses whisper low,
measuring love in silence—
the weight of absence.
A sigh fades into the dusk,
unanswered, yet eternal.
They do not fall,
these hearts of glass.
Suspended between frost and flame,
they ache for a hand
that will not come
or one that waits unseen.
To reach love,
the heart turns inward, waiting
until desire becomes heard.
Each dawn you arrive,
a persist on grayscale,
gone by dusk, yet still
you teach me how love endures—
not in time, but in return.
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