Three pieces of me

because you told me that I have all of you

You have all of my days — good and bad. They are numbered and boxed up in order for you to slot in your schedule between and into my own, hanging from the hook at the kitchen counter. My days are your days.

You have all of my words, you've had them for months — every comma and full-stop and hyphen for me to catch the breath you took away. Every sombre poem and joyous verse. People wrote Happiness like it started with an 'H' but I only know one kind of happiness — it starts with you.

You have all of my heart, warm and beating full-fledged for you and only you. Blood runs through my veins — an exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide, speech and memories, for you. I wake up every morning, for you.