My hands tire,
but you're not done yet.
I put this song on repeat
so I could finish your eyes.
Are these dark circles caused
by the medium, or from the
punches you threw?
So what if you don't really care,
I can make you look like you do.
A small shadow, and you are smiling.
If I erase a line, perhaps you will look at me,
not behind me as you did in the parking lot
while a cockroach crept up my skirt.
I crushed it without thinking
and it was all we had.
More feeling in the footstep
than the hand I held.
Did you remember, I gave you a copy
of this?
Not the original, now forgotten.
I keep adding more expression
with a line or smudge.
It must be my intention
to forget that look which spoke
of how I meant nothing.
