Does she know? Does she know you carry torn up pieces of me with you? Does she know you tore those pieces from me to keep with you always? Does she know that you give those torn up pieces of me to her when you think of me?
Every laugh, every song, every joke, every movie, every orgasm, every tear, every smile, every dinner, every walk, every nap, every hello, every goodbye, every kiss you tore a piece of me off to take with you.
Does she know you’re trying to make her me but you don’t have enough pieces? You try and create memories with her and you reach in your pocket, pulling out a torn piece of me, and you have to decide, do you give it to her? You can’t tell her. You can’t tell her this particular song has meaning because you used to sing it to me. You can’t tell her this particular restaurant has meaning because it’s my favorite. You can’t tell her this joke is my favorite. You can’t tell her she doesn’t cook like me, laugh like me, suck dick like me, comfort like me, love like me, cry like me, isn’t me. So you just give her that little piece of me that you took with you and try to create something with her on the foundation of me.
You’ll miss the days of the sweet life and you’ll miss all those pieces of me when you realize all you’ve done is create a poor man’s version of me.