So I Wrote You
Your name fell into the wrong hands
the day you awoke to the meaning of art,
and because it is easier to pretend
to love what everybody loves,
you soon became somebody else's
last song, somebody else's faded colors,
somebody else's misplaced metaphor.
But your name is also the sound my
parched sigh makes in the middle of
the night, when my bed is empty, but
my floor is full of the bones that hold
me together when you don't.
So I wrote you in the dying light of
a summer's day,
to throne you where poetry precedes
just before my shadow walks over
my bones in the night,
but instead, you wilted to the edge of
your fingertips, and blamed my voice
for the burn.
So I wrote you in simpler words,
aligned in the space between my eyes
and my tears, just so you could read me,
but you never understand the truth,
and you never believe what you see,
and my face reminds me of every singe
your charcoal fingers left on my story.
But we’re not finished here.
You walked in on my heart when it
was confessing its sins and promised
to stay till the end,
but you wanted eternity where it couldn’t stay, for time is a fool when it comes to love...
so I wrote you,
because just love is never enough for
a love like yours.