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.