Thinking Softly

When thinking softly
of a woman I fancy,
I stumbled back
to the girl I adored,
who held out her racket
which I tripped over backwards,
falling back again,
coming to a rest,
at the tip of a pencil
held by a lady I once loved
who twirled it around promptly
and scrubbed me out of existence
right back where I once was;
a different lifetime ago
in a white fog
with only the damsel
I'd shared my soul,
dancing in elegant circles.

So I look to my heart,
torn and broken,
staring back at me
with swollen, bitter eyes,
and I say to him,
"Get up, we've got work to do."
He cries a tiny bit;
he throws a tiny fit,
stamping at the ground
with tiny little feet.
Then he stands,
a smidge of resolve
leaking through his eyes.
"I'm ready" he says,
holding needle and thread
"Ready to patch up new wounds."

-mine