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Not Quite Ode to a Teenage Heart Mender
Alone in a room with her, stitching away
The felt of her heart, lush crimson
Little white strands to hold
His hands slid deftly over the organ
Kindly repairing her from the inside out
She thanked him much for that.
He fondly holds it, glad for the esteem.
They find value in eachother, and warmth.
Close, intimately so.
Friendship, got and begotten, Arrival
She mounts on her white wings and soars
Over his midnight skies.
A part of him lightened to fly with her
A part made more heavy by her absence
He misses her terr'bly
Not Quite Ode to the Teenage Heart-Menders
To love others with all their hearts and yet
Never to be loved back
