A tale of "what ifs"

This is my writing on your wall. A quiet mourning over us.

You tell me to mind the writings on the wall
We joke about our walks of shame
I wonder: if not here, if not now
Is bad timing the only one to blame?

Yet here I am somewhat lost
Sometimes chasing butterflies
Mostly hoping to disguise
That I’m not ready for goodbyes

Won’t open my eyes
Gonna hold my breath.
Phone rings
Your hands, my mouth, our wine
You leave. I'm here. I understand. It's fine.

Your jeans. My dress. You drink. I don't.
We've always been. We'll never be.
We don't exist. There's you. There's me.

This is my writing on your wall.
A quiet mourning over us.
Always past. Maybe future. True story that never was.

But, see, like you, my words don't stay.
The wall is gone. The plane has left. The paint is gray.
And as you try to read the words, it's too late.
They slowly start to fade away.

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