Sometimes, I look back and try to find when it was that I stopped being your muse. Was it during the times we fought because you wanted us to be perfect like the stories you wrote when all I wanted was for us to be real?
When did I lose my color? When did I lose my beauty? The elegance that captivated your heart and made it mine? I often asked myself these questions as I sat on a corner of your desk, running my fingers on the lines of memories you wrote on my skin. I try to read the printed paragraphs that slowly turned to broken lines and missing words because you no longer looked at me.
I remind you too much of mistake and errors you could never correct. I am filled with erasures and inscriptions of your scrawny penmanship that I often could not understand.
I quietly slip between the pages of an old book, waiting patiently for someone better to come along who will correct your mistakes, rewrite my stories and make new but better memories.