I've made you into pretty words.

Scrap metal.

Crumpled pages.

Ink Spilled.

You made me brilliant.

Permanent.

I suppose I made you permanent, too, but you never saw it that way.

Never looked at your own etchings and called them beautiful the way I did for you.

Your permanence was always in scars on my skin.

Graphite Queen Anne's Lace drawn in my sketchbooks.

My permanence was always poetry with you.

Lovely musings for hours about an afternoon alone.

You made the sunsets sound even nicer after they were gone.

You can't put poetry on a chain,

Shackled.

I ran too far from you to ever be held down.

But here you are

Scrap Metal

Hanging from my neck.