Do versions of me still exist in your mind,
Whenever you put the same playlist every Saturday evening?
In the reds of your laughter
In every sip
Of cheap strawberry wine
In every little heart
Left on the foggy bathroom mirror
In the pages of
Every Cecelia Ahern book,
Somewhere in between
Your art and regret.
Do you still go through my works
Hoping to find a little piece of yourself
In my creation?
- hopeless romantic or realist?