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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.