Taken by the hand we observe as we are observed by the button eyes and patchwork fibers.
The fabric is softer from years of love.
Some places the fabric is so thin the stuffing pushes out.
The words an act of pure meaning - hope.
How can love be the storm cloud?
How can an act of love be so destructive?
How can those that claim love abandoned those they promise with this gift?
What false feigns of openness.
Then closed doors cause cascaded closed doors.
The god damned door slamming shut.
Though the slam is done softly.
The patchwork staring at the door still with a burning heart against the bleak night and bitter ashes tasted whispers I love you.
The embers simmer for as long as they are tended.
The door may or may not open.
It diminishes the love no less.