He sits at a corner, looking out the window,Fingers playing with a paper heart.
He sees the crowds, tailing them shadows,
his hands moving to tear the heart apart.
A slow, ripping sound breaks the silence,
Pieces fall to the floor like white snow flakes.
The wind blows, and they fly out the entrance,
Passersby step, oblivious, squashing them like cake.
He rises, walks out, searching for the pieces,
They are everywhere, scattered all over.
He picks them up, one by one, with a heaviness,
Some are dirtied, others are gone forever.
He knows the undeniable truth now.
He sinks to his knees, head in his hands,
The whistle of the wind turns into a howl,
Try as he might, the heart will never be complete again.
