There was never a story
Of such comprehensive sabotage
As yours and mine
Did you really have to make it this hard
To lose a thing I never had?
There is a song
In recesses of what passes for my soul
That needles an old ache
And I’ve come to accept
I am not a protagonist
Endings might not even exist
For the likes of me
I hope they line up in your head
Every barb and cut
We have delivered to each other
As it does mine
Sealing a fate to a liminal space
Furniture covered in white
Dust mites in the library
Sunbeams through unscrewed window
A vine around the tallest tower
I could step out
I should
I am standing on the sill
Hidden in an attic
We both know I was made for glory
And yet
And yet