Sketches of Us

Most folks would just say, “Hey, our time together was good, but this is goodbye.” Simple, short, and brutally practical, isn’t it? But then there's us, the poets. We simply can't leave things be. No, we have to feel more, turn every goodbye into an epic tragedy or a significant life lesson. We love to complicate things, to wrap up the plain truth in layers of metaphors and hidden meanings, just to say the same thing... but make it sound deep. So, here’s another attempt at making a mountain out of a molehill.

Our time together was time well spent,

though now, it seems, it’s time for it to end.

At the start, we couldn’t stop laughing,

and we’d talk all night through.

We dreamed up all sorts of things, lying side by side,

doodling our future in the edges of us being together.

But those doodles, they were just that, weren’t they?

And pillows—they don’t really hold up under the heavy stuff,

like truly understanding each other,

when tough truths are steadily breached.

I used to think love could cover the distance

those huge, quiet gaps filled with resistance.

Between what you believe and what I do,

between how you show respect and how I need to feel it through.

Funny, isn’t it? the more I got to know you,

the more it became clear, how little you knew me, too.

Your words, lost their flavor, began to sound the same,

turned into predictable lines, as if they are on loop.

Your jokes started to bounce around the room,

no one there to catch them but me,

running out of laughs, stuck in the gloom.

And your thoughts—well, they stayed yours,

never got the hang of mingling with mine.

Feels like we’ve been trying to clap with one hand, right?

Cheering for a show where only one still enjoys the script,

playing parts in a story where nothing really shifts,

and I’m muted, supposed to nod, as if I understood.

It’s pretty sour, this taste of decay,

realizing that what felt like building something was just keeping busy,

to avoid seeing what’s really going on.

So here we are,

standing in this mess we once called ‘good’,

and I’m asking myself—was it all just a waste?

All this time, trying to weave something you would never see as art?

But hey, it wasn’t all for nothing.

I’ve picked up a few things,

like how much it costs to give up bits of yourself,

how heavy the words are when you don’t say them,

and just how alone you can feel in a room

where two people are supposed to be having a great time

but at the end only one is.

Yeah, our time together was well spent,

if for nothing else, it taught me,

how necessary some endings are.

and how certain some hearts are never meant to blend.

Sega