Conundrum
Each person I love
owns a piece of my heart,
Is that why then,
it is broken
In so many different places?
Is it vastly crumbled about,
or simply divided among those
Who have touched me,
who have left me
With the joy of knowing them?
And where is he whose heart I seek,
Has he come and gone
without my knowing,
Or perhaps waiting
yet to be found?
So does this all mean
that when my heart aches,
Or breaks Or shatters,
it is not doing so in pain
or grief
or sorrow,
But
with
love?
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