“I know which way the wind blows through you…”
Why is it this way, when he left his heart behind?
Gave me his secrets you would not have?
Why then, does the wind blow cold and stark?
He called them scraps
I saw three quarters of a man, mercurial,
slip through my fingers.
Pieces of him crushed and ground down into fine sand,
swept into a box, hidden away upon a shelf.
We all live in our cages.
Some more comfortable than most.
“But I’ve amputated! I don’t need them, see?”
He tried to tell me.
Burned those dreams and shelved them;
Aye, I see.
He loved me first, and long after.
A door left open; so why did he stay?
All I have left to me are ashes,
running through my fingers.
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