when the heart has closed,
it is always your own fingers
that must pry at cracks
to win a widening seam.

he is a dream,
a fantasy that walks now
daily steps towards me:
and i am a wall, a door,
a fortress of never loving
again, or ever.

when the heart has closed,
it is always your own fingers
that must pluck the right melody
so that the heart may sing.