Crossing the Heart

If pain can be measured by the bushels    
no gurney sacks would be empty
and stacked against the fence
that she set up around her heart    

if the number of time he left
can be counted on the fingers
of both hands and all her toes
more fingers should be grown

why is she still waiting for him
one day he will no longer need her
love will have died a natural death    
she is still watering her hopes

She knows love will surely die
she sighs remembering his goodbye
the dusts in the air shifts
she smiles as her tears flow

Again
At least she's still feeling.