Such pathetic scraps of devotion, Yet it still dazzles me. I gathered every last fragment as if it were abundance. And accept it with silent contentment. He didn’t need much to prove he loved me, really. But that much he can’t even produce, Occasionally leads me to ponder Whether he was ever worth my efforts. What was I trying to so desperately pry out of his empty hands? Hands that are callused but present nothing to provide.