My baby is in pain.
I hate that.

I can't feel it.
But I do, I do.
I feel it.

My baby is in pain.
My little lover is hurting,
and I want to ease it.

I need to solve it,
resolve it.

Make it better.

It is so cruel, for her,
for me.

She feels the pain, 
and my mind and heart 
feel the pain,
the pain.

I hold her close, 
and she cries,
and the tears form in my eyes,
and I feel the pain.

But helpless.

Completely helpless,
I sigh, 
and just cradle her in my arms forever.

It seems I can do it forever,
and I can,
until the pain
goes away.

What kind of pain
is not important, 
but the pain itself is.

Pain of the heart,
or pain of the body,
or the existential pain that comes from living
in our world 
today.

The pain is all real.

And the sad part is that I cause it,
so often.

So often I am the cause of it.
I am the one who gives her aches in her heart,
and in her soul.

I know this,
and I grow from it,
I hope.

I hope that I grow,
and that it will get better and better,
yes,
better.

I help her grow,
as she helps me become better,
so much better.

Good enough to tend to her pain.
Good enough.

I will, perhaps, be good enough
some day
to be worthy of her.

Worthy enough to be the one to soothe
her pain.