he stopped writing about me when he stopped loving me.

i miss how he would write about me.

how i would tuck them away, and read them

hungrily whenever he was off, saving

others in another world. i miss him.

he wrote about a girl with dark hair

and brown eyes who was amused

by the sparkle of a sun glare;

how she tried to never show

her feelings, but through a smile.

he would write how they met 

in her favorite coffee shop,

hidden where the flowers were set. 

months passed quicker than minutes.

he stopped writing stories with 

the dark haired girl in it

as the main character. she noticed

he changed her hair color to honey,

and their coffee shop to an avenue.

he wrote of someone with an English

accent, and who was a prettier view.

i can't help but read your original work,

the rough draft before you found who

you were missing. sometimes my heart will jerk

when someone mentions your best seller.