My heart is a bag of whimsy;
bric-a-brac strewn across the
table,
displayed for you to see.
I watch as your eyes glide
from trinket to trinket;
your hands hovering
closer and closer.
Touch it! My scream leaves
silence undisturbed.
Yet desire becomes interstitial
fluid,
flowing between each trifle;
trying to leap;
trying to presume (and consume)
your tantalizing reach.
Don’t you realize, I whisper,
I’m only waiting for you to ask me to stay?
My heart is a bag of whimsy,
and all you do is hover.
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