I was like a puzzle to you.
A thousand pieces, out of order.
A challenge to put together.
But you made me whole,
piece by piece,
before you pulled me apart again.
Then you put me in a box
on top of a shelf,
left to collect dust.
You never put me back together again,
because seeing the whole picture once
was enough to satisfy you.
YOU ARE READING
This Book is Probably About You.
PoetryHis eyes are the perfect poem, i'll spend forever trying to write. On an endless search for adjectives, to capture them just right. I could try to write their meaning, but I think you'd fail to understand. 'Cause nothing quite that beautiful could b...
