A Poem: In Hiding

They say the heart is made for love
But I just mete it out
For jokes and good times
I fear mine is a pile
A hoard
Here a sock
There a nail
None of it makes sense
Or means very much
Save for me
And I will hold it tight
Thanks very much
You are lucky to look
Please don’t expect to touch
And no souvenirs
You have your own
It’s the same
I promise
Take my word