When I met him I was always hurt,
In a way that was never entirely bare.
Like a glass half full, I was the remnant of some sweet drink
He had only wished to taste,
But never to finish.
I was like hot tea that he thought tasted better cold,
So he left me in the fridge,
Buried behind the frozen peas and bad pizza
Then forgot about me.
He left me out to thaw one afternoon
But found that the shape of me could never be the same—
A warm heart- filled with love- can never retain its shape