I look at them, their hearts on their sleeves.

Unabashed, unashamed, they stare at each other

Their eyes, so fierce, so knowing

Their touches, so confident, so sure

And their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves.

So free, so showing, so strong in that feeling they were feeling

Feeling so much, they'd cry or laugh

Feeling so much, they'd scream or whisper.

And their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves.

They were brazen, blatant, and downright shameless

And with that, came power; the power of passion

Okay... I'll say it. I'm jealous of them

and their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves

I wonder how that feels, how anything really feels...

To have some sensation, to have that love

To have that passion, to have a desire

And to have my heart, my heart on my sleeve

But I'm apathetic and unclear; ambigious and weak

I have no strong opinions to share

And grasp at fleeting objects of fantasy and happiness

But their hearts, their hearts on their sleeves

The only thing I may yearn for

Is the capacity to yearn for something so much...

To have some reason, any reason

To wear my heart, my heart on my sleeve

I want to feel something deep in my bones

I want to want something so much I'd beg

I want to hate something I'd cry and plead

I want to be able to wear my heart on my sleeve.

Is it exciting? To have some dedication to something?

It looks so intense, so hard, and even frightening.

For everyone to know, for everyone to see

How my heart would really look if it was on my sleeve.