I died.

You became more to me as time marched on.

In the midst of the separation currently consuming my life,

You made me yours.

Am I simply another conquest?

Something less than important?

Was I right when I said she wasn’t gonna need you anymore some day?

She took your money.

She doused your flame.

And here I am.

Again.

I went to your place one night,

A sanctuary away from my jailer.

My soon to be ex in the bed back home.

While I serve as your sounding board and something more.

What am I to you?

No sooner we were done,

And we started talking about her.

You read me the poems.

As if that’s what a woman wants to hear.

The poems between ex-lovers.

It hurt me.

Didn’t you see?

As I was trying to listen,

I was about to massage your back.

You aggressively shrugged me off while still reading your poems.

I died a little more inside.

Because no matter how I thought we were done,

You’re still the subject of more prose.

But there’s no we.

There’s me.

And you.

And you.

I’m aware I’m here to help you heal.

But when you’re done healing,

You’ll fly again.

Your fire will once again burn.

For another.

Because like Eponine,

I’m left on my own.

Loving someone who will never feel the same.

I’ll always just standby & smile.

Because regardless how it hurts,

I’ll be happy you’re finally happy.

I died.

And you’ll never have witnessed it.

Because you’ve never reciprocated.

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