I gave you my heart.
The wrapping was bad and it was far from new.
But I gave it to you.
It had cracks, some bigger than others.
But I gave it to you.
It still beat loud and loved all the same.
So I gave it to you.
When you took it, I thought I’d get one in return.
Though all I got was a empty box, where a heart once was.
You couldn’t give it to me.
I would of accepted it no matter the condition.
But you couldn’t give it to me.
I would have loved ever crack whatever the size.
But you couldn’t give it to me.
Because another had your heart still in her hand.
So here I am.
With an empty box.