Stories

We were made of stories 

we wouldn't tell anybody else.

The history books didn't have 

Our names written in them.

But we were hoping 

to be remembered by people 

that don't even know we exist.

But, we do exist.

We are a breathing story line 

with an unlikely plot twist;

we've given up the moment

we knew we were going well.

We were getting too strong

that nobody could break us,

but us.

So, we did.

We had plenty of chances

as if they were just dust

in our shelves 

of books that were just waiting

to be read, to be held,

to be loved again.

We had an open ending.

One which everybody else

keeps on determining

how it should go,

how it should turn out to be

the best story ever told.

But, no.

And don't tell me that I didn't try.

Because, I've been up for it

every single time. 

And I still don't know why

we've never spoken our apologies.

Or maybe we did 

and I just didn't care.

Because I saw the look in your eyes

and, I swear

they were seeing me but

were seeking something else.

And I never said I'd give up.

I'd never risk losing us. 

But, isn't it that some promises

were made to be broken?

No, it's not just that.

Some things were made to be broken.

Some people were made to be broken,

even the ones we thought would make it.

Let's go back to the beginning,

how I said that we were made of

stories we wouldn't tell anybody else.

But, since I'm telling the truth,

we were made of stories

we were afraid they'd find out.

And, no, the history books didn't

have our names written in them

because we didn't make it.

Isn't it they only sell the 

ones who've succeeded?

Let's go back to our ending,

how I realized that we are no longer

made of untold stories.

We are now made of memories

kept on boxes,

of poems we can no longer 

tell each other

and the rest,

I guess,

that I 

no longer want to remember.