I miss you.
The other one though,
the one that cuddled me,
loved me, and acted as my husband.
How young we were..
How stupid I was,
to believe that this
would last forever.
Is it your fault or my own doing?
These broken pieces,
oh what should I call them?
They are waiting to be picked up.
My basket is not filled yet but
I can count three pieces of it.
My humility, my desire, my nothing.
