Your mailbox was a piece of "modern art"
You had a streetlamp outside your window;
You used to call it your own "personal moon"
We used to lay on your balcony and philosophize
There was a mark on your door frame from when you moved in
You made me a key after you had locked yourself out, twice.

         The mailbox is now full of mail that's not addressed to you
         Your "personal moon" has been moved down the street
         The balcony is now occupied with a grill instead of our thoughts
         A new coat of white paint has been applied, erasing your existence
         My key no longer fits; it's just a key.