In the season of alonedom, lonely hearts gather;
fearfully, innately, with each other as they falter.
Some seek a shoulder, some, a pair of open arms,
but me, a pursuit, to rekindle my charms.
We search for answers from stories others tell,
but alas, wilting hearts,
equal love’s like universe in parallel.
– – –
With both hands empty and her heart full, the girl made a promise:
to love and comfort me – and at times, visit me in the abyss,
to honor and keep me – though, in ways I may not comprehend,
in sickness and in health, but not in times my ego swells,
for richer and for poorer; on the crowded carousel,
for better or for worse; but principles come first.
“The wounds you have, only you can nurse.”
The void emanates and now us in a frenzy.
Her hands now full and my heart, empty.
– – –