Every time I leave
a room you’re in,
a little piece of me
gets left behind.
You’re running me through a net
and your net has lots of holes
but it’s still a net.
And I end up wandering
Looking for myself in the reflection of polished glass,
mirrored brown puddles,
and my own troubled hands.
This is something I don’t say to anyone.
But if you look carefully
you can see it in the black behind my eyes,
in the creased folds when my face breaks
on my furrowed brow when I am elsewhere,
in my slightly parted lips and breathless whisperings:
I still love you.