You said those arms of yours were made to hold me.
I fit in them like a glove; like the only kind of gloves you wore and wanted.
Those gloves were a special kind - soft and already molded.
You loved those gloves and I loved being wanted.
I remember one time you told me you left your gloves out in the rain.
You were so angry with yourself that you forgot about them, it drove you insane.
The rain was coming down so heavy, soaking into the leather drop by drop.
You knew they would never quite fit the same, you wanted the rain to stop.
I wonder sometimes if you get as mad about what you did to me as you did to those gloves.
Making me weather the storm of being left behind, it was more like a tornado that went through my mind.
Tumbling over and over, wondering and questioning...was I not good enough?
Or was it all just a lie?