I have always opened up myself entirely for you. So now opened up, broken, I’m lying somewhere. Sometimes on your knees. Sometimes in your eyes. Or sometimes, right behind you. In the shrivelled remains after I’m broken, from ‘was’ to ‘am’, I live myself all over again. Maybe after I’m gone, you read me. Sometimes on your knees. Sometimes in your eyes. But me, the one broken right behind you, him? He must still be there… hoping, I pull myself together, and come right back to you. And so time and again, every time, I leave myself back, a little, right behind you.