the pretty musings of your mind
the way that I hear them in mine.

You've not heard the sorrow in your voice,
the grave nature of your tone,
nor the sweet sound of your laughter,
no matter how rare.

You've yet to know
just how your words affect me;
they cut me deep,
words like knives that break flesh
and dig in until bone is reached,
and that sinister pain shoots through veins
and chains me here in this hollow place.

You've not heard the way that
I wept for you on that cold winter night,
when you dropped your heart in the snow
and left it for me to carry, to hold, to nurture.

And I nurtured it well.
I drove it out of your little hell
and it became new again by my hand.

Did I help you, Dear?
Did you hear me here?