He was there with
me, now he's there
with her. Or him,
them, maybe all alone.

He makes things better
by slipping endorphins and
stimulants of all different
shades down his little-boy throat.

He used to tickle my
sides and put kisses on
my shell, that held my
cerebellum in all nice and snug.

We would go no where;
Never get anything done.
We would make small
talk about growing up.

I would think about him and
think that he wasn't enough.
He was nice and gave
me all that he had got.

All of the lonesomeness, all of
the sad, all of the mad crept about.
Past my hazel irises and
began to erupt, mushing out.

Out of my ears, my pores, some right
out of my mouth. That day in March
my hypothalamus flip-flopped and
resigned from its job.

The boy who was there fell
right out of touch. An automatic
reflex kicked in quicker than
a frog catching a bug.

My legs lay criss-crossed and
bony, unshaven as I picture
him picturing his old best
friend, who he left and lost.

He day dreams of being aged and
playing Go Fish. Crackling at me
to draw, I grab his prune-textured
hand. In real life he starts to cry.

He sets down his room temperature can
of Mountain Dew. Grabs a couple of different
colored pills and goes out to party
in attempt to help him not remember.