He's held for us a shy court,
In the continuity of my world.
Where time under anesthesia
First feels the cold of my shoulder,
While still showing a vague interest
In what he makes of the sordid elements
I've deposited at his feet.

Until his acting as what I've presented
Has perfected his imperfections.

His unwrapping this horror
Has lost the only bookmark
I'd destined to hold the significance of your laughter.

'This object is worthless'
He laughs, and then asks,
'Is it the grayest of ugly gifts?'

I reckon it is,
But remain stoic.
Not too unlike this damage now done.

My picking up these pieces
Of his paper misery
Reveals where the torn of his envelope
Has concealed the light of my gesture.

The key hides elsewhere tho',
On the shores of love.
A once deplorable trinket,
It now derives to hold the heart
Of my oldest fable.

So I destroy it without regret.