Yours

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