Symphony, re-written

I wrote a song the other day
then tossed it aside, left to decay.

I grew tired of writing
and bleeding the words
that spoke of you then of me.

There was never an "us"
just broken trust-I'm sick from waiting-
this shouldn't just sit, and stew and strengthen,
when there's havoc to wreak.

You were the words I'd choke on
but never stop saying.

I was the paper; you poisoned my skin.

Only recently did I realize,
to be rid of the memory of what could be
between you and me, I'd have to
toss aside my own pride;

The paper you wrote on-
the passion that died.

Now my words sting of acid-regret.

With a promise to look forward
to someone who'd let the void fill up
with ambitious infatuation.

And a promise for inspiration-
to be a muse for my pen.

And the colour that stains over
what was done-what was said-

And the Music
of your mistakes.