Sand

When you left, I thought I was hollow. I thought you had taken me away with you, scooped up the essance of my soul and my person and shoved them into that bag on your shoulder before you drove off. 

It would've been easy. You broke me down when you met me, rewrote the strands of my DNA, crafted me to who I am, molded me to fit in a little box you could carry around and still be happy and I...I was just happy to be kept.

But you left, and you stuck around because you knew I'd let you, because you knew I don't know how breathe oxygen you didn't anymore. You stuck around, and you widdled. You chipped. You bit, you clawed, you tore. Little peices of me stuck in your teeth, in the dirt, in the palms of your hands. 

And I didn't notice it at first. I didn't notice you taking what was left until for the first time in my life I truly had no more to offer, and the peicces of who I was started slipping through your fingers like sand.

Do the grains feel half as good as your lips against mine? Do they sparkle? Do they leave little imprints in your palms? Do you even care you're holding what's left of me?