Subtle Hints
“Trust me, please?”
she says, sprinkling in yearning with a fine hand.
He likes it mildly flavoured, not heavily spiced.
“I trust you implicitly”
he replies.
And she wonders why that hurts worse. Hints over words.
The heart, a little glass charm, strung up inside a body of dust.
It scratches, chips, it even crumbles but it never gets tougher.
