You put your heart on the shelf.
Amongst the carousels and glass bells.
Hidden between the gold candles and dead red roses.
Dust has collected on her, proving years of unuse.
The wounds have healed,
the bleeding stopped,
but pieces still remain at large,
only you know where they lie.
You refuse to take her off the shelf, to even look at her.
As if the pain of memory is too much to bear.

The miniature rocking horse hides her from view.
Innocence proceeding.
I stare at her, moving the white pony aside.
She is beautiful in her solitude,
in her loneliness
with her hurt preserved in time
amongst the shelves of mismatched characters
stored up there to look pretty but to never be touched.

My heart aches for her, feeling her pain.
He longs to hold her in his arms,
console her and tell her that she’ll never be alone.
To whisper promises to her
to never let her be put on the shelf again
with only music boxes to sing her to sleep.

I promise you.