We are the clothes,
You hung up to dry,
But left out in the dark,
Soaked through by rain.
We are not forgotten,
- just unimportant.
Me, seemingly the least.
You'll tell her what's wrong,
Underlying the burden,
And allowing the satisfaction,
Of validation to balm,
You're careless actions.
I don't even get that,
You give me nothing but a gap.
This vast expanse of emptiness
That serves as a constant reminder,
Your leaving,
And I never mattered.
I could call you selfish,
-I guess that's what you are,
But I'd only regret it,
*I already miss you.