Mind over Matter

I see the reflection but see only stranger; see them sweep arranged ringlets back from bare shoulder.

Growing plenty flowers, a little homely garden of its own.

A touch of its own, in every corner of the ribs that it calls home.

If I fall in love someday, and I give away my heart.

I wonder if my heart will feel homesick with new ribs dull and grey, no flowers that it had staged, no colors it had envisioned.

Somewhere new, if my heart was delivered.

Inside the ribs of someone who is not destined to be mine.

Oh how alienated and lost, my little heart would feel.

I will seek and search, long and hard, for someone who has their ribs painted in colors like mine, who has inside their caged walls, planted many flowers, every single one of them, like mine.

So similar that when my heart is given away.

It feels, even inside the ribs of someone else, at home.

My heart will have two homes, each similar to the bones. Never out of place, never dazed and lost.

Like giving a ruined child familiarity.

Even when his mother leaves him to his aunt's place for the weekend, the room he is placed in, amusingly similar to the one in his house.

How has your heart decorated the ribs?

Are there flowers growing? What color is it painted with?

If you give away your heart, I hope it is received by someone with ribs similar to yours.