The first time I begged your indulgence to help fix my broken piece you did it with ease, I felt at ease to tell you about the cactus holes, the mended bridges. I remember the dusty rooms we swept together and arranged the books on the shelves.
You took each candle that burned to keep me alive, where did you drop it again? Under the rain, it melted my candles, my life was dark and not only dark but cold. I cried and tears poured until evening came and morning and evening, and it turned to days, weeks and months, now I see the years and the weed that has grown has made me hard and high.
My wounds have been freshly torn, you say you ease the pain, if I let you whisper to it, only salt with feel happy to eat and burn me into tears. This is not for you, but for the one who’s shovel can still find the delves of my quirky timid heart. . .