When you cried your heart was broken
I said I would assay and mend it
you convinced yourself no one loved you,
Yet I sewed until my fingers bled
But every few stitches I worked out
I detected later, you undid

It wasn’t until later,
when I’d reached a clouded stage in my life
and I was unnerved as I enrolled myself into the populace;
for even though your presence
Was not favorable or benevolent,
it was dependable company.

And now on my own
I noticed,
more people with bandages
on their fingers from attempting to sew up
an intentionally pensive heart.