The Story of You
You gave me a few pages, paragraphs that sometimes meant something at some points; I can’t seem to remember.
I let go. Your chapter ended.
–The unkept memory of you, the faded writings of our past–
I move on from the sentiment.
And I feel renewed.
My present is fresh. My future is bold.
I saw through a different lens.
Your dirty window was a pristine memory that I could create.
I was searching for a way out. A way to get back to where I remembered I would be.
It may not have been over.
But I let go
so my book would not finish.
We could have had some thing that meant something sometimes. For the sake of comfort– your perpetual cure.
And I could have held on.
But I was meant for more.