For him, she was there.
He was reminded of her when her finger curled around one of his.
He thought about her when her lips made their way down his chest.
She was just… there for him.
But for her? He was everywhere.
The way the wind caressed her cheek.
The way that one dress seemed to still indent in the shape of his hand.
The way that anything lived, reminding her of how they could have lived together.

I became a placeholder for you,
A model that conformed to your every demands in hope a pretty painting would be created.
A lovely landscape was made, long fields and tall flowers.
But the women with her gorgeous smile was not me.
You replace my image with hers right in front of me.
She was dressed in a white dress, while I was now wearing brown.
For after I see what a beautiful painting you used me for,
I feel stained.

i only let you treat me like that because i knew if i didn't,
you'd leave.
i am no feminist. i bend backwards, twist my morals, my boundaries just so that i could get the faint sense that i might have a chance.
the chance that you make me work so hard for,
even though i know any other in your position would worship me.
but because of my constant acrobatics of my soul,
it seems to be stuck in a position with you.

i wish i had two heads,
so that i could spot what was real and what was fake.
one for seeing straight through cracks to make up for the rose-colored glasses the other wears.
perhaps this way i could be ready for the hurt.

I just want to be seen as a good person.
I may have bad days, but I know deep down I am a good person.
I think...

I observe the way you **** your head whenever I question you.
I observe the the intake of breath when I hesitate.
I observe the smirk that grows on your lips when I say yes.
I observe your happiness to my downfall.
With my observation,
I see you never cared at all.

As you ruffle my hair and lean in close,
to tease me about the guys that surround me.
All I do is stand there, silently soaking in the smile that is now directed towards me.
Because I know that I wouldn't do any of the things you list,
at least not with them.
I try to make you understand that there is nobody I have my eyes on,
and then inside my head I finish that sentence.
There is nobody I have my eyes on,
because they have tunnel vision for you.

The wooden block beneath my feet continues to wobble,
as I feel everything falling apart.
All my stability fails and I try grasp out to save myself,
The air wips around my face as I lose the fight to gravity.
The hard floor never touches me though,
I escape with no scrapes or scratches.
You caught me.

I take in the lines of your face, every crevice every crack. He often jokes that I could draw him with my eyes closed at this point.
But he lets me stare, he lets my trace my fingers over his stubbled cheek and strong jaw.

I study his movements, how his brow furrows whenever I trace his cupids bow. I then make my way down towards his hands, one the gently clasps the worn book I had gotten him.
He reads it over and over, the same page.

I clasp the other and attempt the stroke the harshness away.
The ***** fingernails, from planting my roses, even though I always insist we could have the gardeners do it.
The bumpy palm, filled with white scars that he never forgets,
I do not mind for it gives me more to remember of him.
More to savor.

I decide to lift his hand up under the candlelight, examining the jagged lines that make him so much more.
A few are still tender he tells me.
How did they happen I ask?
He does not reply, only starts again at the top of the same page.

I lean back, examining the flicker of yellow in his eyes, in the candlelight it seems to turn golden.
Your eyes make you look unreal my love,
I say adoringly looking to the candle.
That’s because I am.
I snap my head back towards him.
But now there is no gold, only white.
And my hand turns cold and heavy.
For he is gone, only half of him remains.