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 wends like silk
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.
So much love
goes into something so small,
and I don’t mind waiting,
patiently at all.
Just as the moon
waits for the sun to turn,
or petals longing
for spring’s return.
I’ll wait,
patiently.
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