Sometimes it’s not the whats, but the hows, wheres, and whys,
that set a girl reframing his designs in icy steel cores of once blazing blue lights,
then repainting the gold in their portrait aged with pyrite’s deceptive hues,
for taunted her mind, til spinning the haunted verses of a tainted muse.
That too leave her wondering how she could’ve composed him so wrong,
and seen how far tipped his scales only after he stopped singing their song.

Sometimes it’s not the whats, but the why nots and gaslights,
that have a girl rewriting her odes in the morning hours of somber nights;
not to warm elegies but to damnations of burning brimstone,
using for ink, the tears that won’t spill, because she won’t cry alone.
That too leave her wondering how she could’ve forged iron from the dust in his wake
and seen through his fatal hoax only after she lay sole XX feet deep in their grave.

Sometimes it’s not the whats, but the what ifs and stand stills,
that lead a girl to retrace each misstep in the wildest winds on shrouded hills,
while restless in a current lull stalling her spirit uprooted on trodden ground,
still harboring due adventures cast off unhad as she unskips her tired town.
That too leave her wondering how she could’ve built a haven in his perilous dreamland,
and seen his maroon flags flew half-mast only after his limestone eroded to sand.

Sometimes it’s not the whats, but the where-nows and lost days,
that make a girl regret the spent hours spent in a maddening maze,
following the compass opened only by a crack of his puzzling codes,
instead of just folding to the map of forever changing and winding roads.
That too leave her wondering how she could’ve spared her stolen time,
and seen he was a thief only after he confessed, unrepentant, to his crime.

Sometimes it’s not the whats, but the who and what else might have beens,
that let a girl see in perfect hindsight how deeply rose-distorted her lens.
Stare wistfully at the indent, now cold, where he once slept in her queen bed,
and miss most the unseen sights of where other passions may have led.
That too leave her wondering how she could’ve relit fires without a true match,
and seen his was smoke only after his mirrors deflected shared nights to passed.