Once upon a time, in a previous life of mine, I left my heart in a deep, deep hole, surrounded by atrocious, thorny vines.

I left it in a dark place, safe from prying, vicious eyes.

But today, someone walks toward the edge of the hole, with his own heart in his hand.

Why is his heart in his hand? Is he looking to hide his heart, or is he looking for me to give me that heart?

But nobody knows the existence of this place.

Craving long-forgotten warmth, my heart jerks toward him.

Ouch! It hurts!

How many times will the thorns prick my heart as I struggle to climb back to reach him?