I had a little red piggy bank the other day.

With these yearning arms
I raised the little thing and shook it
Carrying to ears that have not heard
A tinkly sound of chimes and adorable laughter.

It was warm to my unkissed cheeks,
And, looking inside, I found old memoirs-
Stolen glances-
Which were just about all I could get.

The piggy bank lay at the corner of my room, beside my bed.

Each night it would look at me, waiting.
I myself wondered not just when it would be full,
But how.
Each night I saved up the same confession.

And when it came to be that it became heavier,
Much heavier than usual,
I took the little red piggy bank and let it fall,
Breaking it into a hundred little pieces.

My mother yelled from downstairs, asking if I was fine.
I said it was nothing.