I found myself standing in the produce section
looking into the mirrors behind the vegetables.
                                                                        
Why's there a mirror here in the first place?
I lean in so close that my breath fogs the mirror,
                                                                                          
I bite my lip to keep myself here, in the store.
I trace a heart in the fog with my pinky.

Slowly I glide my pinky across it, slash.
It shall no longer beat nor ache for something it can never have.

Maybe a young girl will come grab some broccoli for her mother,
And see the heart. I hope she takes it as a forewarning.