I look for you in every piece of them; as if tidbits of your soul crept into who I’m talking to. I’ve not quite yet gotten over you. The thoughts of the last corrupt my mind and erode my soul until what’s left of who I was, is nothing. What’s left of me. That’s funny. As if I was ever whole to begin with. I wrote for you in every aspect. You were inside me. Literally. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. Inside both of us – this dual personality that I seemed to have. This persona that juggler the difficulties of being a great girlfriend to you, the man I loved, and being decent to me, the person I hated. But for all things, you were inspiration. For every love poem, for every poem to talk about heartbreak. For every poem where I had a war between my mind and my soul. Because my mind often times took over. That’s what broke us, right? That’s what made me this undesirable being to you. Even after all that. Even after all this. I still look for you in every god damned soul who dares to spark with mine again. When will I stop looking.