I once drank stars from your silver tongue,
believed your verses were spun from sun—
eight years of echoes in a golden cage,
each line a spell, each smile a stage.
You scattered words like wild rain,
and I, too naive, mistook them for pain
worth keeping—thinking thunder meant depth,
and silence meant you had nothing left.
I read you now with eyes grown wise,
and see no fire behind those skies.
Your poems crumble, dressed in dust—
not broken hearts, just broken trust.
Yet I feel no burn, no bitter flame.
You've long since lost the weight of your name.
Sometimes you drift like smoke through my mind—
not cruel, not kind—just once, confined.
And me? I walk with quieter feet,
no longer waiting, chasing heat.
You taught me much, though not with grace:
how to leave without a trace.
Jun 13, 2025
Jun 13, 2025 at 11:07 AM UTC
I once drank stars from your silver tongue,
believed your verses were spun from sun—
eight years of echoes in a golden cage,
each line a spell, each smile a stage.
You scattered words like wild rain,
and I, too naive, mistook them for pain
worth keeping—thinking thunder meant depth,
and silence meant you had nothing left.
I read you now with eyes grown wise,
and see no fire behind those skies.
Your poems crumble, dressed in dust—
not broken hearts, just broken trust.
Yet I feel no burn, no bitter flame.
You've long since lost the weight of your name.
Sometimes you drift like smoke through my mind—
not cruel, not kind—just once, confined.
And me? I walk with quieter feet,
no longer waiting, chasing heat.
You taught me much, though not with grace:
how to leave without a trace.