Your words are for her.
They are practiced and recycled.
Pummeled down. Soaked. Burned.
And reformed a hundred different ways.

The well-worn cadence worked on her.
An inflection for a thousand situations.
“I love you?” “I love you…” “I love you.”

Your words belong to her.
To another lifetime.
I own the echoes. The distance.
The reverberations from the hollows of a memory.

Your whispers and promises were hers first.
The remnants I receive are gently used.
“...more than anything.”

There’s difficulty in treading
in the shade of her sanctity.
You bring her up. Offer comparisons.
An eternal 19 year old perfection.

I’m your reality. Even more so,
I’m here, while she’s gone.
But I worry, does she still own
the emotions behind your words?