Some hearts are cradled and caressed
by long sensitive fingers,
stroke by stroke,
so that they bleed even harder,
cry even harder than before.

Some hearts are crushed
by a firm closed fist
and the bruises look like flowers,
pressed kisses
that came too urgently and insistently,
blow by soft blow.

Some hearts are fools,
knowing fools.
And because of that,
stars.
Dying, living, stars.
White pinholes of light
in a plaster of choking black.