Tremulous fingers pluck the stitches of a crudely attired heart. One false move and the organ will surrender entirely. She proffers up an anemic sliver to the barista at her favorite cafe and another to a man repining at the bar. Weary eyes offer only the staccato apology of dismissal. Night will bring the savage heat of spring. Dawn the garish embellishment of aphotic stars. There is pain in vulnerability, pain in rejection, pain in the migration of lovers to more sanguine models. She is old now and gathered like the pleats of a vintage skirt, still the quest for love remains paramount.
The woman in the image is not as old as I intended but the picture felt right. This story is actually for the prompt I am not sure if it provides an adequate hint but there you have it