Your attention was supposed
to be impressive. I earned stature
from your looks and how
you looked at me.

You asked someone
was I, would I? Naturally
I was told. The declining
was performed for me.

A young photograph of your selfishness
eroded my desire. I thought you
a plaything. I did not learn
from you the beauty of your work

upon my skin. Just
distance, from which my remaking
who I was might thus
belittle what I had.

Sentences get lost in history.
Restraint learns to hurt
our retrospective hearts.
Sometimes grows a little candlelight.


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