I was your one,You were her two.
It's weird how those things never work out
You are someone's life but you are too busy trying to find someone who makes you feel something. Someone every bit of you recognizes as yours.
Yours to love.
Yours to have.
All yours.
So you take it for granted that your his first thought,
You forget to let him know he is your last thought.
You just don't get that who you love won't love you back.
It's either love or be loved.

I was so warm when I was with you,
you surrounded me with light,
you helped me find happiness in the rotting cracks,
I found love between the pages of books with you,
it's all burned away now.

Last year
you weren't here
for my birthday. I
understood, of course, even though
it hurt just a bit. When
we talked on the phone, you
told me when you returned, we
would do something together, and
I giggled, playing through my mind
the word you used, tasting
its heavy cream on tongue,
"decadent."

Last year
you returned
and you had forgotten
your promise. I understood,
of course, even though it hurt
more than just a bit. You were
busy, though time for criticism and
loud shouting matches and afterwards,
muffled sobbing into my pillow was always
made. In the back of my mind I
kept waiting for an acknowledgment,
maybe, if I was feeling optimistic,
even an apology. It never came. My hope, turned
decrepit.

This year
I look back
at what could have been,
and I understand, of course, but
memories of my blind faith in you hurt
the dying spark of optimism, the one
you haven't killed off, yet. Now,
I am the one who will not be here
for my birthday. You, wanting
only an excuse, will try and gift me with
your presence, commit actions
in my name, actions I do not want. Our love
lost, I do not ask if ever it existed, I know
the affirmative will only hurt me. We
are so shattered, we are far past
the point of being
Delicate.