I went through your poems again.

You told me one was about me and I had to guess which one the way I made you guess what poems of mine in this book is the one I wrote ages ago about the past we share.

You never told me which one it is, or maybe my memories are letting me down again, so I went to take a look, to search for it again.

You were always better then me when it came to writing. You just know how to phrase things in a way I never could.

And I think I found it.

And it's lovely like all the other ones.

But it also doesn't do me justice. You portrayed me better than I was to you.