I wrote a lovely poem,

chicken scratch, but lovely on the inside,


I wrote myself a lovely poem,

I did it all for me.


I wrote myself a poem and I lost it.

It fell to some corner of the earth,

the corner I wasn't invited to.


I wrote myself a lovely poem

and it fell.


It seems all my lovely things just fall away,

my bracelet,

his hand,

my poem.


Where do the fallen lovelies go?