There’s a mouse who lives in my pocket.
Knows my secrets.
Has the sense to get out of the way when I am careless.
I take him for granted.
He’s a good listener, my little mouse friend,
and only I can hear his voice,
only I can understand his language,
because he learned it from me,
encoded and encrypted with pain and fear.
I need to take him out more often,
caress his wounds,
stroke his fur,
and snuggle him in safety,
because the work of allowing love to heal us is difficult.