There’s a page in my work notebook,
Completely and utterly covered in hearts,
And squares upon my wall,
Where the heart is a focal point.
I’ve earrings and pin badges,
Loved to wear, Hearts yet again.
Yet the shape means little to me:
Fathers day cards from primary school,
Words miswritten and saved still,
Sweet toys sharing sentiments,
Thankfully lost to time and misplacing,
Or a hug in a package once sent,
Comfort from home in a difficult time.
The shape echoes through our lives,
Tries to tie itself into a million things,
But that’s never just been romance,
Never just been from lover to lover.
It can be doodles drawn in a friends book,
Or an exercise and reminder for self-love.
But my heart is built by everything.