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.
Do you cry for me,
mourning all that I’ve lost?
Or do you shed tears
over wasted potential,
these matters of the heart?
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.