He still remembers you, Tom does.
He remembers the last time he saw you, remembers the moonlight illuminating your face.
You were always radiant, he says, but that night you lit up the universe.
He weaves a tapestry of your face, words strung delicately together to reveal:
Eyes of the softest doe-brown, deer-in-the-headlights wide
Dark silk strands, curling and tumbling perfectly around
A sweet face, heart-shaped and smooth skinned, porcelain skin
Soft, soft lips, perfectly pink and delicious

I am envious of the care that goes into creating this tapestry of memories, of moonlit faces and delicious pink lips.
Will he one day weave
a tapestry in my honor?
Or will I be the one
    who weaves a warm blanket of everlasting love
        for us to share forever?

Ah, former lover, I cannot help but be green,
for it seems that you still have Tom’s poor heart
caught in your claws.

He remembers you sadly, longing for you even as he holds me close,
dreaming of you even as he sleeps with
his head nestled on my shoulder.

His heart is vanished from his chest,
and that is why he sounds so hollow
when he tells me, “I love you.”

I want that heart, I will take it from you,
and give it back to Tom, to whom it belongs,
and leave the fate of his love
in his own hands.