Stitched by D.E. Berthiaume
Here I sit in the dark, alone with my torn heart.
A needle in my hand, no one there like I had planned.
As I sit alone in the dark, what is this pain feels like a dart.
Then she comes my heart whole in her grasp, while I let out a socked little gasp.
This needle wasn’t meant for me, but to stitch her whole can’t you see?