I used to offer you pieces of myself: things I don't share too often; Things that are perhaps not too pretty to look at, but I know that even from a distance, the gesture makes them beauty. But you couldn't see all that I had offered and I'd find them later on the floor unopened. My heart would sink and I'd waste away. You missed me when you missed my gesture. Perhaps you never noticed; Perhaps you never knew. But I picked up those pieces off your cold floor - those that fell between your fingers. I doubt I'll offer them to you again. They're gifts you failed to notice. The thing I really hold to though is not that I am easily missed, but that you fail to notice beauty.