Your presence still haunts me,
and there are still pieces of you that I find
within every waking moment.
I don't know why I find myself
writing only about you.
I remember when you wrote about me too,
but the good times are slipping away from my mind,
and soon all I'm left with
are the harsh words you threw at me before you left.

And now, I guess it's clear
why you're all that comes to mind when I write.
Because if I don't have you down on paper,
I suppose I don't really have you at all.