I get it. You wiped clean the slate of your heart
and then muddled it with whomever it took to make you forget
all that was written there. And you’ve been clever,
covering your tracks with a finger pointing
always back at me.

Ironic.
But only to me.
To everybody else
it all makes sense,
I suppose.

My heart and me, we’re weary of this world.
Having survived and risen like a warrior storming the gates
of tomorrow. I’ve arrived here and it is empty,
except for the story you scribbled over
my gratitude for you.

Ironic.
But only to you.
To everybody else
it all makes sense,
I suppose.