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Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash
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You’re a
hero, my box with a shiny bow. You held the strings of my heart. You let them go.
He picked
the strings and handed them to me, never tried to hold, never could.
I felt no
rush, no tingle. He made me laugh, heal to become sole
owner of the strings.
Yet I was inexorably drawn to him like a
crackling fire on a cold night, like the comfort of an old tee, a hot cuppa tea.
You were an idyll, he’ll always be.
That thing called love…
You are a hero
My box with a shiny bow
You held the strings of my heart
They danced to your thrall
You let them go suddenly like a
distracted child
He picked the severed strings
Handed them to me
Never tried to hold, never could
There was no rush, no tingle
He made me laugh, hope, heal
Sole owner of the strings
Yet I am inexorably drawn to him
Like a crackling fire on a cold night
Like the comfort of an old, soft tee
Like a hot cuppa tea
You were an idyll
He will always be
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