I'm not trying to accuse you
Of interrupting my engine,
For the piece
That I miss,
That would keep everything flowing,
Like if the feeling was fresh,
Was still weeping
My flesh,
Not a specific piece of me,
But one I tied to the feet of my birds,
Is a gift
And I don't want it back.
I managed to make myself functional,
Yet solid, gelid, armored like steel,
Not like an animal,
Not following my will
Not always letting
Myself feel,
But understanding my mechanism
And how it unwraps
And how to fulfill
My engine's gaps.
I'm not trying to give an excuse,
But when you turned around,
Slice of me laying on your shoulder,
Sparing you from the need of looking back,
I tried to look everywhere
For a gift you'd left,
Yet this package was empty
And of yourself, you had plenty
So I opted for theft.
Voiceless, my birds' beaks could still bring
To me, a souvenir,
My engine's newest spring.
Might you someday notice
A bit of you dancing through my traits,
Please forgive.
I forge it as a gear that fills the hole you left,
I sometimes take it off the shelf
And wear it like a mask,
Not to miss myself,
I sometimes surrender
And hold it like my teddy,
For I'm still tender
Of the little piece of you I could steal.