Parallel Hearts

She drew her heart upon a sleeve
Which sits so high upon a sieve,
Sifting upon that love believe
Long, a frill should fall and grieve.

And yet, she turn a rounding gate,
Sweeping in a step of fate.
Men, alike, no challenge late
That leave her sitting dry, irate.

Such a man is hard to find,
Who turns his head without incline,
Yet lowered pause seeks half decline,
For both do draw a measured line.