I think I've changed somehow.
I know it happens, it's rather inevitable but how odd to happen now.
I used to write of dreary thoughts,
And unkind things.
My eyes could not see stars, because the clouds could never leave.
And though I still feel those things they no longer can define me.
I've shed that skin, that broken skin,
A built myself a galaxy.
I suppose it happend that night, our eyes swollen from tears gone dry.
You began to hum a solemn tune,
And I drowned in that sadness, relished in it almost.
How deceivingly unbearable.
I could not look to you anymore,
So I chose to look up-
And there it was.
A smaller light,
Shining pale against the night,
I looked to it and suddenly,
A different tune began to sing.
Not a chorus, not a moment,
A subtle beat of a changing heart.
I took your face in my hands, and dried those deep oak eyes,
Maybe we could be happy, and maybe it would be alright.
So I wrote myself the star.
I sped my pencil sloppily,
Recounting starlight like a fading dream,
And took you along with me.
Slowly, the sky expanded,
So I drove us to a hidden grove.
And pulled your hand, come with me.
But I knew still you couldn't see.
You stared blankly at an eternal sky,
Heavens stretching before your eyes,
Seeing nothing, but to whose surprise?
I could not rush a trodden soul,
But I could no longer stand it.
Fighting ever familiar tears,
I held you tight and whispered good bye.
But in the place of once connected two,
Were to separate people, You and I.
I continued writing stars but they reached another tone,
I filled my words with guilt and longing, wondering if you were still alone.
Soon enough years.
'I write myself the stars,'
It does feel a bit untrue,
For I know that in each moment, I write them all for you.
I'm not saying writing about sadness is bad, in fact I think it's healthy. But for me I find it more freeing to write dreamily, because, as some may have guessed, I am not talking of normal sadness. Perhaps there's a double meaning. Or maybe not.