the page

He told me that he once flipped a book,

Going through each page, he found one. 

One that he stares a little bit longer than others.

Captivated by what's written on the page,

Or what's drawn.

Yet it wasn't enough.

His eyes hope for something better,

Something that suits his liking, types.

So, the eyes continue to wander.

But his fingers, still stuck on the last page that he saw.

And he described me as that page.

The page that he wanted, the best option yet.

Though his other hand still flipping through others.

"He's going to come back to you no matter what."

True. But it costs my feelings too.

Imagine being the page,

The edges that once were neat are now crumpled.

The page that once were seamless within others is now noticeable.

I hate to be that page. 

To be the only-if-there's-nothing-else,

Closest-to-perfection,

A backburner. 

Love, Juita