In the bathroom I threw some water on my face
and starred in the mirror,
wondering what had happened to him.
When had he become the reflection
that looked back at me now,
broken and empty.
Back in the room with the picture
I thought of when we were younger,
when we'd spend hours lost in each other's eyes
and nights consumed in each other's arms.
I remember when we used to kiss,
and you would get mad when I pulled away.
You would say,
"I'm not finished with you yet,"
and pull me back into your arms.
Now I know how you felt.
I don't know what brought us to this.
Empty closet, clothes torn from their drawers,
sheets from the bed.
You staring up at me from the torn picture on the floor.
I look at it with envy, that picture lying there.
Sure, it is torn,
broken,
left discarded and unwanted,
but despite all of that,
it still has you.
It will keep you and it will hold you,
the way that I could never do.
