September bled into April, like how this ink bleeds into the worn pages of our story. We could have gotten so much farther, rewrote the star crossed lovers, but you tore apart the pages. I would have tried to help pick them up, but I'm so tired of each story never getting the ending I want. Then, you realized you couldn't write it without me, that you needed the ink I was supplying. It's too late. Pages one to two-hundred and eighteen ripped to shreds because of your heart. I have to end the story here, even if it's not what you want. I'll find others to write a story with, even if they rip thousands of pages, I'll keep looking until I get the story right. I hope you find your story, and I hope it lasts long enough to get over ours. Not all stories end with happily ever after, but they always have an end.
-A lost poet, looking for a pen
written 4/14/24
YOU ARE READING
trick's livejournal
Poetrybook for my shitty ass poetry cuz i wanna share it!! enjoy:]
