Girl, Expired

She left me.

We promised one time when we were about 10 years old that we would always be friends.

We would see each other smile until one of us was dead.

I think you died when I reached out for months and your phone line was cut.

Maybe I needed two different cups on a string.

Ones that weren’t filled with disdain, I’m a servant to pain, I gave reassurance umbrellas while I stood in the rain.

She didn’t care.

I was a fool to think I was the exception to her body count.

If I give her a place to hide, if I give her alibi after alibi, turn lies into lullabies, then I would be fine.

Saying “yes” was playing with friendly fire.

Pleading guilty to someone else’s crimes, when I have so much on the line, but I loved her.

I think I still do, but I won’t admit it.

Break all of my bones, and I’m still limping.

Forget me for good, and I’m still thinking of the good times where the world was irrelevant except you and I.

I see a husband, a daughter, and a new you.

Or maybe this has always been you.

My rose-colored glasses fell off, expectations expired, and there’s nothing else for me to do but to forget about you.

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