His brass fingers interlinked with my own,
spotlights staring beneath wooden eyelids.
His face can’t move, he can\'t show me how much
his clockwork heart aches between his iron
ribs. Something is broken in his copper
brain, and he doesn’t know how to express
his quiet agonies with no adequate
Face to wear them and hands too crude to write.
He tells me that he cries sometimes but that
it doesn’t look like it does when I cry.
When people see his tears they always laugh.
and he thinks it is his fault for being
too hard to understand, but I know that
no one loves him enough to really try.