what i have left
is a crumpled ziplock with
one last hershey’s kiss — as if it knew
from the start he was going to leave.
(i knew, i knew!)
the intent of being left behind
leaves its trail of three
rose petals, dripping themselves dry
in a mess of eight drops, cautiously
to your 16-year old handwriting.
each letter slithers across the flimsy
note that once
two years ago,
held between my fingers
held so much
these are the words you left behind
the words you left behind
the words you left
i am no longer brave enough to read them.
we were children, but no cherubs,
not james and kerry in training
not james and kerry in book four
not james and kerry in the end
not anything at all,
not 2am texts
not cowardly-whispered voice messages
not awkward exchanges in not-so stairwells
not flowers hidden in bags
not 3rd january
not the little things you left behind
not the nothing of me that’s left in you—
it’s a phone tag game.
“i know it’s 5am but i think i’m falling for you all over again”
it’s been two years
it’s a phone tag game
and i find i’m the only one left playing.
the art of losing is not too hard to master?