All our heart shaped boxes
piled by the curb
rain sodden and wrecked,
all these years of 
baggage,
caked with grime
but bearing sprouts
between corrugation and chaos
are beautiful.
What you never say to me
is as beautiful
as what your silence sings.
There is no right answer,
I know,
but let's pretend there is
and let's set down at the curb
what burdens we've carried
and rest
in each other's arms
until the sprouts and vines
make gardens of our aging
make forests
of our remains.