She’s writing someone else’s poetry now. There was a time when I thought I would break if that ever happened. I thought I would measure every line, searching for pieces of myself hidden between her metaphors. I thought I would compare the way she writes about them to the way she once wrote about me. But I don’t. I’m happy she still has someone who makes her want to write. Happy that her heart is still full enough to spill into ink, happy that her words still find a reason to exist. Well, I was once a chapter, no longer waiting to be the subject. And now I am a memory.