This will all end in heartache.
No more of the pain I can take.
The somewhat naive strolling into the sunset. A hurried escape.
Once an embrace, now separate ways.
You can count on me to keep watch, glue in my pocket and close guard of the clock.
This will all end one day.
When the Giving Tree decided to take- it found out there was nothing worth having, the fate of all its past seasons and falling leaves, fell too late.
And you swore I’d get a second chance, but that was overturned 100x’s— all my apologies fake.
Just an endless negative trail of “sorry”– that word is as meaningless as “hello” when despondency leads to dead ends.
Hey Jon. do you remember that time we laughed until the sky appeared soft, molded by the brazen captivity of a 9-5?
We always worked until 6 or 7 anyway.
How was I supposed to know that the fleeting hours had constraints? We wouldn’t count on each other forever??
Maybe it was only me that needed you. The need to siphon and spit out exhaust. Feeding the endorphins caught in circulation; awaiting captivity. Anxious for release.
I don’t know what a gift is. I just steal from under the tree,
Regardless of what day, minus holidays and birthdays- no present will fill the void, no ego posed for stroke or accolade.
No stump awaiting me.