Souvenir

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.