to the end
the women I called friends
after the spilled perfume
they left the room

the men
I said looked out for me
as my shadow
were soft as Brie

They didn’t make it
to the middle
to them, I'm an image
the bonbon
that is spinach

They didn't make it
to a beginning
they judged this tree
from the splinters
they couldn't make it
past the winter