The Collector of Broken Hearts

The Collector of Broken Hearts

At the end of a quiet narrow lane

Stood a shop that had no proper name

Its windows dark, its curtains drawn

Yet somehow open from dusk till dawn

No signs displayed what could be found

No voices ever made a sound

Though people came from far and near

And always left with faces clear

Inside were shelves from floor to roof

Each holding stories, living proof

That not all things are lost through time

Some leave a mark that feels like rhyme

An old man sat beneath soft light

His silver coat worn thin and slight

He never asked why people came

Nor spoke their sorrow out by name

A woman entered dressed in blue

She smiled although her sadness grew

She placed her hand upon the desk

Then left with footsteps lighter pressed

I watched and asked what she had done

He answered calmly, only one

She left the weight she could not keep

The kind that steals away your sleep

I looked around and slowly saw

Each shelf obeyed a stranger law

Not broken hearts inside each place

Yet moments people could not face

There stood a box marked almost stayed

Another one called dreams delayed

One carried trust, one silent goodbyes

One held old love that never dies

He looked at me and raised his hand

As though already he had planned

Then asked me gently what I brought

And what had followed every thought

I stood there still and thought awhile

Remembered every hidden pile

Of words unsaid and hopes set down

Of carrying joy beneath a frown

He listened then and softly smiled

Like speaking kindly to a child

And said these things are not to lose

They shape the roads that people choose

Before I left he passed to me

A folded note quite carefully

Inside were words both strange and true

Your heart still works Let it do what hearts do.

#Marie381UkWriter