Because you were no longer mine,
the poems stayed.
But they didn't feel like beauty anymore—
they felt like you.
And maybe that's the cruel part—
poetry doesn't forget.
It remembers everything
I tried to leave behind.
Even...
the way you looked at me
like I was more than just
a collection of broken pieces.
But I was, wasn't I?
A puzzle missing parts,
trying to fit into a picture
I didn't understand.
And I broke you.
Not because I wanted to,
but because I didn't know
how not to.
So maybe poetry is beautiful,
and maybe it hurts,
because it is the only thing
that tells the truth
when I can't.
©umclite
U