Porcelaine

I used to know this girl down on Angel Parade.
She would come early in the morning and set up her stand space in the open market.
And out of her bicycle basket and a box in the back, she'd take out all sorts of wonderous breakables.
Girls walking to school would stare at delicate glass swans with entwined necks and crystal feathers.
Boys walking past would stare rapturously at epicly posed soccer players frozen in translucent, unmelting ice.
And they'd all coo over the little porcelaine hearts tinted pink and blue, couples staring loving at them as they fingered the smoothness of its exterior.
It even came in it's very own box.
She'd smile at them all as they passed by, looking wistfully as they left, hand in hand.

She'd come late one morning, with a bloody scrape down one white limb where her bike had tipped.
The bike itself didn't look too battered, unlike the basket and the box with her wares.
At the sight of her shaky hands delicately removing pieces of shattered glass and porcelain, our hearts went out to her.
But even with so many hands, not all could be assembled to resemble any of it's former glory.
We were left with a pile of broken hearts.
Dejected, thus we left to go on our ways; there was nothing more to do.
Her unshed tears stung our hearts.
The way her hands folded morosely in her lap made us feel even more helpless.

Imagine our surprise, upon returning that afternoon, to see a crowd gathered around her stand.
Two little boxes for one broken heart. Two people each possessing half.
Going off, as ever, hand in hand.
Love.