It probably hurts the most because it wasn't about me. The squish, the warm glow, starkly empty. That wisdom, the wit, the caring concern, My unheeded affections already in urn. I fostered ignorant hope, tentative dreams, I shudder to think of all my unfruitful schemes. There's wounded pride, yes. A small sadness, too. But now I just pray it was unknown to you.