Thirty-two.

Is a heart a balloon?
Does it fill with happiness
until it pops and
you're left to mend the
shredded remains?

Or is it like a grape?
Do you exert pressure
until it explodes and
then move on to the next?

Does a heart wither and
die? Or is it continuously
mended?

Is this how we love?
Filling ourselves, pressing
down until there's
nothing left to
stitch together?

Where does it all go
when it feels like
everything's broken?