Tell me, who's most at fault?

Me; for believing you?

You; for doing whatever it took to fill up your loneliness?

I could feel the winter creeping in through the windows
A white hue hung in the air
Fingers of ice ready to embroil me in it's pleasure
Yet I was warm and made of toasty
Yes
These are the good days

My roof was sound as the wind announced its arrival
I smiled a whistle
Singing the only creak to be heard as I opened a full cupboard
I was ready to devour
Yes  
These are the good days

Time does now tick as my age turns to grey
A smile of great memories
Crying sadness of old loss
My role to remember
A job to create such
I look down through the blur
These old hands all now wrinkled
The good days all gone

last night i wrote 'luck is the duck'.
i think i was wrong though;
see, 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒆. it folds up the socks
of the beach and blesses it with a kiss.

we, the duck, ebb and flow on
the waves; eyes glazed and dazed
from kismet riptides. you can't sail
luck, but you can sure as hell surf it.

i'll see ya on the beach.