I'm rocking to the music of a sad song.  That's right.  Rocking.  Obviously, not rocking as in the fun sense of the word.  Not that you'd care.  I am, however, letting these words be written by the melancholic  chorus of a song of despair. 

I'm not sure why you've left me.  I'm not sure why I stayed.   I'd love to go on a tedious rant about all the things that you did that made me so indifferent.  This isn't about you. 

You've had enough about you.  I leave you a different person.  There are callouses where I never thought they could grow.  Callouses do grow and you're an expert farmer.  I'm sorry.  I planned to not make this about you.   You'r faults will be the seed I'll plant on my next loves.  I can't remember why you left because I've chosen to forget.   I could concentrate on the good times but that seems to be too much of an effort.  The grave of our past is covered in weeds and they'll remain untended.  I'm over you.  So over you.


The End

1 comment about this poem Feed