Was there anything left of me after your mind picked me apart?
Level by level, leaving no piece of me sacred or safe.
Did it start to tear away my clothes, your desire for me gone?
Past the way I laughed and the touch of my skin.
Down further to the kind of books I read, the music I shared with you or how I ordered food at a restaurant.
Further still, to the way I wanted you to hold me, how I longed to keep your attention, how I hoped that you would look at me and really see me.
Perhaps a little deeper, to the frustration, the confusion, the fear, when I realized you were silently walking away from me. All while you were still holding my hand.
Picked apart, moment by moment, to the very last piece of me.
The way I loved you.
Was there anything left of me after?
A Series of Observations 