No more flights of fancy, or maybe there will be,
It doesn’t matter really, the inconsequential
Loves, put simply: they’re not He.

The heart is such a fickle thing, flitting
Here and there, yet it isn’t, it’s just seeking
The one that stole it first.

It can’t find him now, he’s gone for good.
But there’s something in this one, a new kind of friend,
He ignites intellectual passion that I hope will
Never end…it’d seem that the way to my heart
Is through my brain.

This heart is occupied.


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