I'd sing you a song
But we've grown out of tune.
A simple melody we were
Basic notes strung together
In hope to be something beautiful.
But notes turned long
And the tempo changed
As we crescendoed toward the final measure.
I'd write you a story
Except the ending's already here.
We were never a blank page from the start-
Already ink stained from the constant rewriting of our chapter.
We wrote and we wrote
Until
Our pens gave out mid sentence one night
From all the
Scrawled out words
Crossed out mistakes
And unwritten secrets.
I'd paint you a picture
But the colors have run dry.**
My palette of reds and blues and greens
Have mixed to a murky gray.
The paint brush has grown stiff in hand
As I stare at the mess I've made.
What used to be something wonderful
Has become a blur of
Bad timing
Indecisiveness
And "oh wells."
Where there used to be a picture
Is now just an abstract version of
What could have been
But
Never will be.