She tried to leave you with all her scars etched to your skin
but all she could manage was the wine stain on the glass;
She tried to cut pieces of her heart
and leave them around for you,
hoping against all odds that you’ll follow the trail
that would lead you straight back to her;
But all she could do was draw lines with crooked edges
on the paper where she wrote your name a million times.
And by the end of the flower stems and letters she never sent,
She almost always swore upon
all the stars in that brightly lit sky
That you were something real.