Unused

Unused

The pretty pen sat on your table,
the one you use to sign your name.

Lonely hearts line up on pages.
How many lovers have you stained?

You salt a wound,
What’s done undo

But I remain unused.

There’s a cup filled every morning.
Held gently up to meet your lips.

I echo empty, ever calling,
Going cold and left un-sipped.

You salt a wound,
What’s done undo

But I remain unused.

The patterned dress filled with pockets,
The ones you use to warm your hands.

I’m still hanging in the closet,
waiting for your someday plans.

You salt a wound,
What’s done undo

But I remain unused.