Past, a neat little word that is used to define me, a complexity beyond comprehend.
Like a trail to the summit of a mountain, that no one has been able to ascend.
Imagine my past to be a painting that took years to unveil
you are the reason it’s not for sale
You came, you saw, you conquered, like a lesson too easy to learn,
all my senses were pawns in a game of chess and now it was your turn.
But then you left, leaving a smear in the painting that cannot be restored,
Now the king stands vulnerable and alone, his queen has left the board.
Memories, turned into a breeding ground for insomnia, is all that remains
it’s not blood anymore, it’s pain that pumps through my veins.
