The Hand Me Down Heart

In the grand, echoing chambers of her hopeful heart, 

She welcomed his affection, a hesitant, fragile start. 

But his love arrived, a garment, folded, worn, and old, 

A hand-me-down emotion, a story often told. 

It settled on her spirit, a fabric soft but strange, 

Bearing the faint imprint of a life beyond her range. 

She felt the subtle stretch marks, the give in every seam, 

Whispers of a former wearer, haunting every dream.

He moved through days beside her, a silhouette so near, 

Yet his essence, like a shadow, held a lingering, silent fear. 

For the man she loved, a tapestry of intricate design, 

Was still meticulously stitched to a memory, not truly thine. 

His laughter, though it chimed for her, held an ancient, hollow sound, 

As if its truest resonance in other halls was found. 

His hands, though warm upon her skin, possessed a gentle hold, 

That seemed to trace the contours of a story ages old.

She watched him in the lamplight, when the world outside grew dim, 

And saw the fleeting flicker in his eyes, a silent hymn. 

A name he no longer uttered, a secret, sacred plea, 

Danced upon his pupils, for only her to see. 

It was the ghost of a forgotten hue, a pattern long erased, 

Yet stubbornly persistent, forever interspaced. 

Like a faded, hidden monogram beneath a new design, 

A silent, stark reminder, that his heart was never mine.

She tried to make it fit, this love, with needles made of grace, 

To smooth the crumpled edges, to find her proper place. 

She pulled at stubborn buttons, at zippers that won't close, 

Hoping with each tender tug, his true affection grows. 

But the fabric of his being, woven tight with threads of old, 

Resisted every alteration, stories left untold. 

The scent upon his collar, a perfume that wasn't hers, 

Clung like an unseen phantom, through all the passing stirs.

Each whispered word he offered, a pocket, deep and wide, 

Yet she found them filled with echoes, where other secrets hide. 

She was the careful patch, applied with hopeful, trembling hand, 

Over the raw, exposed seams of a love he couldn't command. 

A vibrant, hopeful color, laid upon a muted grey, 

But the original shade bled through, at the close of every day. 

She longed to be the canvas, pristine, unblemished, new, 

Instead, she was the backdrop, for a love he once outgrew.

The silence in the evenings, a tailor's fitting room, 

Held up the stark reflection of her quiet, growing gloom. 

She saw herself reflected, in the mirror's honest gleam, 

A stand-in for a phantom, living out a borrowed dream. 

The heartbreak, a relentless thread, began to pull and fray, 

The last remaining stitches of her hope, day by painful day. 

For she was merely stitched over seams, a temporary, frail repair, 

While the phantom garment of his past still lingered in the air.

And in that grand, empty concert hall, where her own heart would sing, 

She heard the distant melody, the sorrow it would bring. 

The power of a memory, a force so deep and vast, 

Held him captive, bound him tightly, to a love that couldn't last. 

She was the gentle echo, in a space already filled, 

A melody unheard, by a heart forever stilled. 

In the grand, empty concert hall, she knew, 

This hand-me-down affection, would never see her through.

- Khushi Kaul