I can't blame anyone, not even the one you loveI'm sure you both have stories to fill pages with—about how you met and fell for each otherI do not have the right to claim you,so the question of hate seems outrageousMy nights are haunted by the dead and the livingYou are a beacon I always waited for
This poem is about one of my simple yet honest and brutal take on being a side character in my own story because you cannot blame the other person that entered your story because they both have their own version of truth, in which i never existed. They both have stories that could fill pages with them and may never run out of telling them. What this poet experienced was something fleeing that was never actually a thing from the perspective of other person. I was the one who entered their story and tried to claim it as mine. I'm saying that because something that had never found any beginning cannot be called as cheating because for that there needs to be a mutual connection. But where was that in this story? In the stolen stares or just accidental stares that this poet considered as something bigger than what i possibly could've concluded it as?
