You were singing the blues when I met you,
Singking your heart of misrule,
Into an ocean of second thoughts.
The saddest note on your table;
A pen unwilling to write,
Its ink afraid to swirl.

I took the seat in front of you,
As I opened my soul like a blank page.
Your hand began scribbling again,
Writing our next days with better hues.
Until you decided that my page was full,
That there's not enough space for your stories.

Now I'm stuck with these scripts of red,
With your handwriting all over it.
These traces of broken promises and misgivings,
I'll try to erase it all or rip it out.
As I open a new sheet to another stranger
You play your songs of blues again.