Maybe it was my fault,
Or so I thought.

Or maybe it was you,
And your manic way of being.

It’s okay now that you’re gone;
You know I’ve always liked being alone.

In the middle of the night,
In my empty house,
I look at the moon
And think of you.

I remember the nights
The wine,
Your smile,
The blush on your cheeks.

We burned so hot
We nearly turned to ash.

Dancing through the night,
Your clothes scattered on the floor,
The memory of your scent on my pillow,
A wound that never truly heals.

A story left untold,
A love that will never return.