maybe you liked the thrill
of chasing
what wasn't yours.
maybe the forbidden fruit
forever tasted
the sweetest to you.
these are all sugar coatings,
lies i tell myself
to get some sleep at night.
but when my hands
find the pages of spilled ink,
hushed notes in
chicken scratch writing
hopelessly trying
to make sense of us.
of you.
sentences upon sentences
forming the carcas of our love,
picking the bones apart
until there is nothing left

i realise;
we were magic
in a world of ordinary.