dear my most squandered


a blank page starting out;

you controlled my story line. 


whatever you told the pen to say automatically transcribed onto the parchment,

and i thoughtlessly followed the words inscribed in your signature blue ink— 

your handwriting forever written over my heart.


idiotic was every memory,

i convinced myself

the feeble attempts at reason melted into the cabinet

filed sloppily under “you.”


in failure to morph the reality

of losing it all

i decimated every memory of a time where the good showed through.

the old you—

the good you—  

would float back to the surface like a relentless rubber duck.


the creeping suspicion of honesty

was held under

by your wild hand.


as if etched in permanent marker,

your hold over my soul survived every attempt of ruin.

i spilled

i tore 

i erased the pages,

but the print would not disappear.


as you moved on she didn’t.

i didn’t.


her pressed aluminum hands

were constantly in motion;

never distracted by the glimpse of a second with you

as i was.


her only complaint,

gathered from a rumbled ticking,

was the squandering 

of her inevitable self.