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We were the best of friends, we found refuge in each other at work. Texting till late at night, calling in the middle of day with no delay. I remember, when you called me and asked me to cover your shifts for your vacation, I immediately accepted and you said I was amazing.

I like to think of that instead how we ended.

The good times, like when I complimented your boots and you implied that it was nice to find a guy whose purpose wasn't to objectify. I can't help but wonder if playing me was your goal, you're married now, he's seen you naked, but has he seen your soul? It all happened so fast, I didn't think you dating that guy would last. He wasn't your type, at least that's what you told me that night. I'm not jealous of him, I'm jealous of you, you were able to give up, while I'm still clinging to the idea of you.
When Friday buried Thursday
at the cemetery
I was eating eggs and
bacon in my bathrobe.
The other days wore black
attire to the burial
and brought white geraniums.
I stood in silence for three minutes
after I finished my breakfast
then wrote a note for the weekend:

“My time will come,
don’t wait for me,”

and left.

— The End —