I'm sorry.

"What?"

I'm sorry I left you,
Not because of me,
Not because of you.
Because I was selfish,
And I didn't listen.

I'm sorry I felt pressured,
Not because of me,
Not because of you.
Because of my friends,
And I chose them over you.

"No, no it's—"

I broke what was already broken!
I let you stumble down a path,
That we tried to climb together.
And we could've gone up together.

Then I made a turn,
And I didn't help you there.
You fell down and broke your bones.
All because of me.

"It's—"

Now I made us both shattered.
With the other parts that can't be found,
I made you this way,
I made myself this way.
This is where I brought you and I.

"I—"

I'm sorry.
I miss you.
I love you.

You may as well dance
to the tune of a blue moon.

Or sing a lullaby to the sun,
eat a bellyfull of stars,
try to keep away from bars. :)

How do we write about love?

It's too hard to capture in words,
and in verse it's even worse.

But the hardest thing of all
isn't when we fall,
it's when we let it go.

How do you say that, you know?

Oh, sad Poet,
cartographer
of the heart,
mapping the geography
where sadness
is the topography
of your soul.

Oh, Cousteau
of the changing tides,
like an oceanographer,
an admiral  spying
the enemy on the horizon.
Your sorrow comes and goes.

Oh, builder of sad dreams
in your house of many rooms,
but one door. Like a grave,
a casket shellacked with
black paint, a mural
of a shadow on the wall.
Architectural sorrow.

Oh, you sad Poet,
open your eyes,
paint us a poem of a rose.