On weary Saturday afternoons,
she wears her heart
safety-pinned to the sleeves
of her favorite sweater,
her evanescent lungs collapsing tiredly
within the back pocket of her jeans

But despite this, her eyes beam upward
at the passersby,
cheeks flushed crimson at the possibility
that he might be amongst them,
her love,
the one who stored his sins
in a paper bag- and released them
like fireflies in the summer
pounding against glass jars
they cannot escape

But today she cannot find him,
just massive seas of unfamiliar faces
and uncharted passions,
so she gazes up at the tangerine sky
and sighs,
hoping that her tired wishes
on fallen eyelashes
will pay off someday.