I saw your friend the other day.
The one whose hair speaks of wisdom
beyond his years.
The taller, prettier version of you.
And I noticed I didn't think of him
as handsome.
More like a symbol, familiar but beyond
physical taste.
I saw your friend the other day.
The one I met at the red dress party.
He saw us spar with smiling words
and thought it was abnormal.
I guess I thought so too.
I guess that's why I left.
I guess I couldn't handle you.
I saw your friend the other day.
And I wasn't happy to see him.
He reminded me of blows that never came.
Reminded me that we never wrapped our hands
in our anatomical hearts,
and slugged it out in the living room.
Of a sick separation, silent, without the sound.
Just moldy rotten feelings gone soft
tearing down sandcastles quietly.
Without the force that changes the world,
so I can still fit in it,
standing up all the way,
and say with utter conviction "I don't miss you."
We never got the chance to burn ourselves clean.
So now I'm just sitting here with unfinished collages
and a box full of your things.
And I don't even know how to get it back to you.