He used to be…
That unfamiliar territory of “used to be.”
Failed. Attempted. Failed again.
I should’ve. I could’ve. I would’ve. I did.
I didn’t. Didn’t. Didn’t.
I had mastered the of art of telling you everything
In such a way that you always thought you knew so little.
The stories and characters we used to tittle
Were everything he used against me to belittle.
He picked up a smoke, waited till I broke,
He wanted to choke after he finished his smoke.
She gathered all her sadnesses, her hurts and pains,
She was the fallen star whose scars sustain.
And in her alone days she put in them into her ink pot,
A place she made sure wasn’t forgot.
She let her ink absorb them,
A place they felt more at home
So she might raise the glass someday to all of her own.
For she knew that ink would write her wrongs and make it all worthwhile,
So she wore her smile and starting living her style.