I have handed you my heart of sheer porcelain,

wrapped in newspaper printed with the hymns of my love for you.

You took it gently.

I think that was the worst part.

You peeled back the worries,

the blatant devotion pulsing nervously,

and looked.

Looked.

You wrapped it back in the paper,

tape pressed ever so gingerly back into place,

and handed it to me with a pitiful smile.

You may as well have handed me dust.

But, even dust,

touched by your hand,

even a smile sewn of pity,

is better than the absence of you at all.

So I have handed you my heart,

a sheer porcelain gift,

and you handed it back.

And I am shards,

And I am tears,

And I am everything you do not need.