Lost hearts aren’t so romantic

We give our hearts to each other all the time,
And do we take care of them? No.
Hearts end up at the bottom of purses, poked by pens, dusty and sticky with discarded lozenges.
Hearts get forgotten in the back of sock drawers,
And sometimes people play hackeysack with them!

We hate the people who are careless of our hearts,
Yet at the same time we are careless with nine or ten that have been given us.

I found a heart by the side of a road the other day, slightly squashed, next to a bag of spilled french fries.
I couldn’t tell who it came from,
But guessed that it was given by a mother.
I dusted it off and put it in the branches of a flowering tree,
Hoping whoever was supposed to have it, would see and remember.
It’s a good thing those bulbs of blood and muscle are tough and strong,
Otherwise we’d all be SO screwed.

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