This isn't a poem about you,
It's one about me.
It's about things you've done,
That I shouldn't have seen differently.

You and I were alike in different circumstances.
You made me feel certain things and they felt like chances.

Chances I would've pondered if they weren't taken.
Chances I would regret eventually, only I didn't know it back then.

When I wrote about things about you, it felt like a stab back then.
It felt like the knife jammed in my back was being nudged all over again.

But sometimes it felt like the fire in my chest, like something close to rage.
That every time I think about you leaving me it's like a storm trying to burst through my ribcage.

And sometimes it's sad and blue and gray.
Sometimes I think about maybe it's my fault and I I didn't give enough and that I wasn't okay.

It's got me seeing red and got me feeling blue.
It's drowning in silence where it used to be the voice of you.

It's got me seeing gray since you left me with no color.
When you up and dusted, when you ran and slammed the door.

But this isn't a poem about colors.
It's one about pain.
It's about things I wouldnt have lost,
If they were things I didn't gain.