You, my dear, are a glass blown water vase.
Full of stems and backbones and drowning with the absence of air.
You, my dear, like petals that keep growing back.
He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me.
She loves he.
Yet every time you are, I am not.
And therefore we are not, because I am.
And he exists. And lives in me.
And you do not.
But you could.
If only He lived in you too.
