You were nothing like them, 

except for the way your back turned 

to walk away from me.

You were nothing like them, 

until the you echoed their words, 

how you said you were sorry,

for not being able to love me.

You were not supposed to be like them,

yet now i am spending my last words,

turning you into poetry you used to read. 

You told me once, I wrote beautifully

about those who chose not to leave. 

Is this the reason why you left? 

So you could be beautiful, not only in my memory,

but in the words my heart bleeds?

You were not like them, 

not at all,

except now I don't write about anyone else,

at all.