Fingertips

I spent years

with my fingertips

pressed against the glass

of a store selling love

I could not have.

I watched every day

as a new person walked in

and walked back out

with the kind of love

one dreams about;

The kind where

laughter is genuine

kindness is abundant

and no matter what

love is unconditional.

I spent years

pressed against glass

waiting for my turn

to slip through

and wander the aisles.

But my turn never came

and the doors suddenly

boarded up, snuffing out

the enticing glow

of love and light.

I quit pressing my

fingertips against cold

loveless glass and pressed

them against the hollow

of my chest instead.

Oh, how there’s no warmth

in the center of a heart

that has yet to feel

the joy of two hearts

beating for one another.

There is just sadness

a sense of loneliness,

and an overwhelming

desire to

shatter fucking glass.