The years started stacking like books with loose bindings
amongst other forgotten things on your shelf.
Steps slowly slipped away from our feigned sense of direction,
leaving our weathered hands reluctant to let go of one another for fear of being alone.
Morning sunlight spells patterns on your walls like small maps of old moments now gone.
I am there now seeking shelter under your skin.
Burrowed in deeper than your first regret.
Because I'm more of a coward than I (would ever) care to admit, and though I wish my will was stronger, you'll always win.
(It's nice to know you didn't forget.)
I attached myself to your spine before you pulled me out
and tore apart whatever was left of my old self, although not entirely. Maybe I was too stubborn to see it then,
when you took pity on me and said,
"You weren't aware you were losing something.
You weren't aware you were giving up."
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