It pours out of us
a mess
we hold
and catch
what our hearts
can’t hide
we stitch it
to our clothes
and inevitably
get dirty
Then we adjust
to the pain
we stuff it
in a shoebox
our fists
closed
our hearts
fragile
we keep
the lid on
We forget
about it
until it spills
out again
on its own
but now
it’s different
Love is a gift
and is often
given tenderly
and sometimes
when it leaves us
it takes a part
of us with them
To carry in their own boxes
And we carry theirs in return.
-JC