They’ve tried to come back,
Cracking my heart many times,
In many places.
Deserted the mended heart,
That held fast.
The hand that made them feel like man.

To only come back,
From the shrew they’ve tried to replace my existence with.
To try to come back to the touch,
that Would touch them no longer.

It is the consequence,
They bear,
When you desert the eyes that love,
The touch that heals,
The heart that once beat.

They can never know it again.

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