No, we don’t talk
Haven’t since I left;

He tore into my heart,
mangled spokes in my feelings;
mocking his honor
of not caring

They’re not the worst
things to happen to me.

If I cross him
on the street
I’m sure he’d jump
to the other side;
eyes dancing in
blazes of deridement

In the remote chance
of reconciliation
he’ll know where I live

Permission granted
into the sweltering forests
of my furtive imagination

Noone would ever know
what went down,
for do we grant
further free passes
to those who don’t care?

D-Tags: Poetry