you paint portraits and still lifes
because you think they're more beautiful
than what we've ever had.

maybe they are.

you put your pen to paper and the words flow like water
you write because you like to dream
about things that maybe should have happened
but didn't

you told me to do what I felt was right.
I have.

have you?

you say yes, but there's an underlying sadness
you don't care to explain.

was it something I did?
because if so, I'm sorry.

because I'd never want to hurt you.

don't you want to hurt me?

maybe you do.

you never thought we would turn out like this;
waiting for the other to
apologise for something that neither of us did.

was it something I did?
because if so, I'm sorry.

you don't know what's wrong,
I don't know how to say it.

we go our separate ways.

I miss you.
do you miss me?

I'm not so sure you do.

you don't miss me at all.

but you promised.
and you never used to break your promises.

guess there's a first time for everything.

are you happy with your life, sir?
you say you are

so why don't I believe you?
I don't know.
maybe because I know you aren't worth believing anymore.

but sometimes, when you're all alone
you wonder why things didn't turn out
the way you said they would.