"No one notices how the steam opens the rose of each mind"

What if shows me,
The shadowy charcoal etching
I vaguely try not to see
That lives vibrant in your working memory
.
.
.

Of me.

If only you knew then, what
You know now, she murmurs purringly.

I interject:
Then perhaps, they,
Would care more for me?
What a necessary pity.

And she is left unfree.