Maybe our shattered pieces
Are puzzles to be arranged
Into a fine art - a whole heart.
Maybe, the missing fragments
Of our dreams are lost
Only to be found where our hearts both lie.
Our losses aren't at all
Rather, beautiful inks yet to be spilled.
And our tears, a compass
To chart our course
While tracing those lines down our cheeks.
Perchance, our lives aren't for us to live
And our Love,
A known symbol never to be found.
It doesn't matter anyway.
Our story could forever be untold.