If I spoke Crisp words to delicate ears, As though dropping Rainfall into deafness, Would she take to the whimper Or the whisper, in return? If I wrote Freezing lines upon the snow, Where would she go If such were signals, If such were directions? Hold her, not to scold her. Take her, not to ever break her. Tears are loosened leaves To make the trail. Fingers run across her lips, Seeking an answer. Wake these eyes, her cries Have kept her dead, for a while. When I should kiss, Will she smile? Grace, Exhausted space. Sentences sent down her throat To where her sentence brought her In a cell within Unneeded Hell.