The Split

Breaking up is hard to do... the longer the love, the harder the split

When we bought this book,
years ago, on a day,
not too perfect but sweet.
Your hand held my hand,
laughing at titles and
breathing old paper.

You had hair that always,
hung in your eyes.
And I still smiled as I,
brushed it away again.
Shoulders brushed by hands,
the touch full of thank yous.
We decided to take this one home.

Our talk was fresh like,
the sharp white pages.
You tried to tell me sweet everythings
And I hid behind an
un-creased cover, red and
pretending to read.

Today the title still lays
between us.
I can see it's cover is cracked
and someone dog-eared
the corners.
Normal signs of use...
but there's a place where,
dark finger prints litter,
the once white edges.

Those stains are the kind,
only seen with neglect.
When you take your stories,
not to love but consume.
Those fingers brush shoulders,
full of replayed I'm sorrys.

Your hair is cut short now,
it never falls in your eyes.
I want to smile as you reach
out again.
Eyes tearing a little,
as I hide, blue
and pretending not to mind.

The ragged edges lie under,
your hand in my hand.
Breathing in a story,
worn out with time.
As we try to decide who,
takes this one when I go.