Wishful thinking

Where do heavy hearts go?

They slip in between the cracks

And underneath covers

And wrists and lips of half assed lovers

And they bath and seethe

In loneliness and despair

Unless a rose is given.

Then their cheeks are beet red

And their eyes blurry from waterfalls

Slinking out of their eyes

And they forget what is was like

To slip so quickly into quicksand

And bury their hearts in an untouched treasure trove.

Where do heavy hearts go?

Some stay rotten like the corpse of a dead fish

Others become golden, forgetting thorns and settle for

Blooming free.

I like to think you are the latter.

I always like to think you bloom relentlessly.

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