Cherished Broken

On a wooden bench 

Half rotten, half broken

They etched their names 

And filled with ink blue.

The benches as if were to carry 

Their stories in its brown and blue.

After two long years of 

Declining talks, 

They were friends in memories

And memories alone.

So the two years 

In the next white building,

As if the white would suck new memories 

And anchor them.

The fake wooden desk of there 

Yellow in color,

Had no words etched,

For maybe somewhere

Everyone gives up on friends that can stay.

So why bother bringing the desks

In a story that is continuously forgotten through the ages.

Perhaps the benches are never changed,

Though rotten, though broken,

Such that they portray that some lives,

Some stories

Are cherished broken.