It's a light feeling,
Like a fistful of tiny scribbled hearts
on the edge of your paper.

Then it grows and glistens,
Like a spark in your stomach startling
the stable butterflies into chaos.

And it gets bigger,
Like the roller coaster drop in your stomach
tinting cheeks pink upon arrival.

Yet it beats you down,
Like you're just wasting your feelings on
a gamble you weren't sure you would win, but

Still the feeling grows,
And you grow sore from the stretched heart beats pumping still,
reaching out to try beating harmonies alongside the preliminary.

Over and over we try,
The next time always hoping pink roses will darken to red,
hoping they won't crinkle into withered fallacies again.

And again and again we find ourselves
Breaking our hopeful smiles at the sight of what we want-
given to someone else.