It’s not the little memories that hurt the most,
It’s not the future memories that could have been,
It’s not the physical touch of your firm hand,
It’s not even the lust in your eyes when I strolled through the door.
It’s knowing that you have cast me aside.
It’s knowing I’ve been thrown in the laundry basket,
Like an old mismatched sock,
Forgotten about in the dryer.
Left behind on top of the washing machine.
Every once in awhile,
You look at me.
Not with disdain,
But not with the spark.
Every once in awhile,
You pick me up,
Not with the careful touch you used,
But with the roughness of a scorpio.
And the memories come rushing through,
Knowing that once upon awhile,
I was welcomed into your world,
While now, I am barely a rebuttal in your field.
