Maybe It Was All You.

 


Maybe we met because you were meant to teach me how to drive,
or push me to finish school.
Maybe we met because you were meant to hold me—
when my days felt relentless.

Maybe we met because you were meant for me.
 
Or maybe,
you were simply there, 
at the right time, in the right place. 
 
And maybe—
if you hadn’t been there—
my life would still march forward, unchanged.
I’d still learn to drive, finish school,
face the days without your arms around me.
 
You just happened to be there.
Maybe you weren’t that special after all.

Maybe it was all me.
 
It was all my love, my devotion,
that I poured endlessly into you,
building an illusion of a man so grand—
a prince charming to pull me out of the water,
when I was never drowning.
 
Maybe it was all me.
Or maybe it was all you.
 
All your jokes that lift the weight off my heavy heart,
all your smiles when you come home after work,
all your tight hugs,
and warm kisses.
 
But maybe,
it was not you,
nor was it me.
 
Because what’s the point of —
dissecting the ruins,
for ashes don’t reform into flames?
 
We are nothing but a sentence left unfinished, 
a hanging ending in a book 
with no chapter to follow, 
no story to continue.
 

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