She was sewn into me deeper than I was sewn into her but cross stitched we made a pretty picture.

but I was poked by so many needles that I became holy, not Mary, cest la vie, this is the way it came to be.

I just ran out of thread before she did, now we're just remnants of a masterpiece that once hung in an ornate frame, became clips, cheap prints in a bargain bin.

I'll send her a postcard when I'm not so full of sin.

I just ran out of thread before she did, and I didn't mean to hurt her, but it all became too familiar like men above a city, sitting on a girder, no flash photography please I don't want to see, leave me in direct sunlight, maybe my colours will bleach.

I'll send her a postcard when I'm not so full of guilt,

we'll never be hung in the same gallery but still,

I just want to remind her that our threads were once entwined through the same needle's eye,

just ran out of thread before she did.