Things..

Things were okay, everything was good

Suddenly something changed,

 like my senses, have been misused. 

We were like Sunday morning’s French toast,

Monday’s ladle pancakes,

Stormy night’s sympathies

And he used to call me ‘Blake’.

 Clashing doesn’t work when love is withdrawn,

Waiting doesn’t make anything perfect

Unless the tiles become more brown,

‘Things were never good…” he yelled at me,

Am I only then, who was pretending everything?

People leave, feelings change

We recover somehow,

Cause there is always a assurance 

Of our loneliness’ vows.