I always wrote stories
Of broken insides
Of mangled hearts so gory
And shattered slivers of pride
I only found words for the cuts and bruises
Scrapes and gashes, and bleeding eyes
And each day with you, I waited for muses
Thinking surely a love poem would eventually arrive
For I felt nothing but awake
Thrilled, intoxicated, grateful to exist
I wondered what more it would take
For my mind to craft the story of this
Yet with you, the joy was beyond words
No ink could capture the tale
No pretty sounds came to be heard
In this writer\'s mind, although the heart sailed
Little did I know, your poem would come
Yet it would fall to the same overflowing pile
Of tear-stained works used to fight the numb
And pitiful attempts to piece together a smile
Yet yours, my dear
Takes the grand prize
For the scars you\'ve left here
Could write their own book of goodbyes