In the end,

I think I wrote it for you.

The late nights and spoiled milk,

Sitting almost reluctantly on the windowsill.

It’s hard to tell though- It always is.

You might have glanced at it- briefly.

But never long enough.

In the end,

I think It wrote it for you.

But strangers forget to read the signs

That point to me,

And then to the area I left long ago.

In the end,

You’re a taboo.

Always have been, always will be.

Hanging darkly in my head and heart.

The others are allowed to pursue you.

But the black sheep stands to the side

With clenched fists and tight lips.

In the end,

The ink ran dry.

But the words were yours-

Simple willed stranger,

With a deep soul and a restless mind.