She stole little pieces of his heart
or maybe he gave them to her freely

the truth is most likely hidden
in another story
another song
another poem

it was the little things
the simplest of gestures

the kindest of her smile
the soft colors reflecting in her eyes
in how she had perfected
the art of a hug
both in the duration and snugness

it was the the way she talked
how every word that left her lips
became a song bird all its own

it was in the way she listened
and the way she was quiet
when nothing else
needed to be said
in how she turned
a moment of silence
into a heart felt orchestra

and with every piece she stole
and every piece he gave
his heart grew bigger  

and so the story went
the truth hiding
in the open pages of a book
the notes of a song
waiting in a poem unwritten

where she stole
and he gave
until there was nothing left to give
and nothing left to steal
and all that was left
was love