Soft and tender words on my now dry and folded pages.
My cracks and crevices filled by the same sweet nothings
That used to fill you.
No longer the picture-perfect sunset autumn night I used to be.
Not a canvas of time lost in crystal blue eyes.
Now you’re the photograph I gaze upon.
I’m black tears of ink smudged against your clear ones
Dried by air of bittered and shadowed glances.
A tack pierces my skin like the arrow in your still-beating heart.
Bound to a wall like his love once tied to you
And an attack it would be to try and unravel.
Maybe one day you’ll forget me enough.
Enough to unpin my tattered-stained pages
And not miss an emptied shadow.
But for now I hang in your private museum, not by invitation.
Among all your greatest treasures and fondest memories.
I once belonged but now I try and be forgotten.
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