I Wrote Those Songs For You

A Poem

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

Every single word I’ve ever written

has somehow led its way back to you.

I brush off the guitar, just sittin’,

waiting to make music so blue.

The melody comes slow at first,

like the sap of trees in summer,

and I feel the song like a thirst

though thinking of you is a bummer.

We thought we had it all, I guess,

till the glass ran out of wine,

and your life was no play, all stress —

I should have taken it as a sign.

So I’m here on a stool in the corner,

watching for the guys who look like you,

though I guess I’m the only mourner

because I didn’t know we were through.

The bar crowds, and I strum strings,

but of course there’s no one to see —

I’m just a bird with clipped wings

with my lips not even forming a plea.

Those notebooks, you know —

I hid them out of sight, out of mind,