He doesn't write me anymore
I mean, he doesn't write about me
I had begun to lose count of the metaphors he had for my body
Eventually, I started writing him
His eyes like riptides
His hands like continents
His hold so tight
I thought I would lose myself in him
His promise so big
That I couldn't see his ego behind it
His heart
His heart his heart
Like a broken down car
With all the parts
But the wrong mechanic to fix it
Maybe I was just another wrench in his toolbox
Or he had a couple screws loose
Either way
He doesn't write me anymore
