He sat, cross-legged,
face forlorn and full-headed,
with thoughts of her,
each day he dreaded,
the night's quiet,
and mind's scream,
listening to songs,
they might seem,
nothing to you,
to him they meant the world.
She lay, pale face,
red lips, biting taste,
the blood on tongue,
picking at her grace,
not thinking of him,
or his fate,
fumbling sweetly,
the hour was late,
lover's pictures,
to her they meant the world.
Moving on, so he thought,
going out, life's short,
trying to find others,
to fill his void,
breathing in smoke,
still he's ignored,
at night went home,
striking music chords,
still he sat, still he cried,
to him she still meant the world.
At home, all alone,
she picks up the phone,
scrolls through,
his name is shown,
he's living life,
she should have known,
thinking those nights,
she wasn't alone,
because of him, she cries,
to her he now means the world.
He sits, cross-legged,
thinking of her pictures embedded,
memories sweet,
thoughts of nights he sweated,
in fear at her loss,
and how he had fretted,
now he smiles, moved on,
life's change he gives her all credit,
he knows she's happy,
to him she had meant the world.
