It was when the anklet started fraying,
When I knew you’d never come back.
Maybe you’re body will return,
But you are lost,
And I am broken.
We weren’t always.
You were a psychology major,
And I worked at a deli.
We filled our daily mochas
With ignorance,
But of course,
It was topped with whipped bliss that was creamy and sweet and rolled down my throat like lava drooping down its volcanic fortress.
I rather be sick of you
Than missing you.
I can’t forget the turnover I felt
When the illuminating dancing flower maids in the streets of Boston turned gray.
You’re news stomped out,
They slapped me hard,
They grabbed you by your luscious mane
And dragged you away.
I know as time gets older it grows people out of shells,
Forcing their old skin to remain behind,
For it no longer has a purpose,
But I never thought your fresh soul
Would shed off your anklet too.