Dispassion, of water, 

It leaked upon my cup, 

But there I was collecting every last drop.

After all it was mine, it was all mine.

With the pour of a hand 

I can see the impression that it felt toward it

The cold barring water,

How it wished it could be heated.

So I let it


This poem is about: 
Guide that inspired this poem: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741