Maybe there's a plan for us, us girls with the fragile hearts.
A desert that has been desiccated and neglected for years.
Maybe a rare fleeting tumbleweed or two.
Out of the blue the skies cry tears of joy,
It's time has come.
The drought has been conquered.
The desert soaks it all in.
But there comes a time, when the rain has to stop.
The soil crumbles.
The plants wither.
The sun burns.
And the ground splits,
Leaving more cracks than it had before.
Maybe our hearts are deserts and we are not capable of handling sporadic droughts.
And maybe our plan is to hold off for an endless amount of rain.