We were always taking scissors to our paper hearts—
Cutting shapes to let the light in,
Then throwing the scraps like confetti, though,
They fell more like rain.
We just wanted to feel something,
But now we're puppets without strings—
We spent so much time trying to get free,
We never dreamed of where we'd go,
Or if we'd go there together.
Now I'm tangled in your goodbyes and telephone wires;
There's a hole in my chest where yours used to touch.
I see your face when I look in the mirror,
As if I've forgotten whose shadow was sewn to the soles of my feet.
I carry you with me—maybe out of habit,
Maybe out of love.
To be honest, I can't tell them apart;
I don't think I ever could.
When you see the moon
Illuminate the fog,
Comforted by the creak of your porch swing,
Do you miss me?
I got my heart broken. Clichè, but true.