The last time I saw your face
was while you were still trying to get out of our embrace
and something about your eyes told me it was no longer ours.
You wrote my curves, my lashes, my locks, and my moods into your poems
and now I read those aloud to myself,
to find parts of you, in case you left any behind.
I’m a piece of paper that reads into itself,
A piece of paper I’m constantly trying to save,
because these words are all I have.
I never existed outside them for you,
and I only found myself in them after you left.
If you could teach me to look for myself,
while I was trying not to lose you,
I wouldn’t be the piece of paper you lost on a windy day,
and you wouldn’t be writing another muse into your words.
Your poem and I lie here together,
unwillingly abandoned by you.