Even the slivers of Sunday dancing across the carpet
remind me of the movements we once made together;
how they only ever felt right.
Spectrum of color reflects in tiny wings of the nameless,
yet counted by God.
We are so alike, except that you never had the grace
to be my kind of disgrace,
throwing yourself away.
The loser is me.
Being strangers is a choice made.
I ask if you're bored yet
because I would be looking for a nice way
to say "I want out of this."