We Deserved That Universe (in three uneven verses and one brutal bridge)

You were jagged-edge royalty
in velvet and vengeance—
(tongue like a blade,
heart like a hymn,
hair like a goddamn solar flare)
and he—
he was the punchline with dimples,
the dopamine in a tuxedo,
a walking shrug
with arms that held irony like gospel.

And we—
we watched
from our adolescent altars,
believing in the sanctity of
Canadian stardust
and opposites that made electricity
instead of smoke.

You laughed like trauma
and sang like divinity,
and he followed you
like a metaphor
he didn’t know how to finish.

And then—
the unraveling.
No sound.
No war.
No song.
(Just a quiet, Hollywood-endorsed
disentanglement
while the rest of us sat
with the wrong version of forever.)

You should’ve scorched him
in D minor.
You should’ve name-dropped him
beneath an avalanche of harmonium
and sacred feminine rage.
You should’ve turned his apologies
into art.

But instead—
you went soft.
Silent.
Maybe even
kind.

(which hurt worse)

And sure,
he’s happy now.
And sure,
you found peace.
But somewhere in some
parallel,
perfect,
infinitely more just dimension—
you’re still writing
songs about his stubbornness
and he’s still making you laugh
in a kitchen lit by low watt bulbs
and bad decisions.

And I—
I am still there,
knees to the carpet,
mourning what was never mine,
singing backup
for the version of you
that stayed.