You’ve been here for the last time today,
surfaced to thought in an old cookie tin
where I’d hidden you under the bed,
You with your poems and your pictures,
things that weren’t meant to still exist
but were resting in dust under the bed-
I guess I thought they’d be harmless someday,
I guess I thought the same about you.
But if time could fix all that
I have no interest to find out,
if all this silence has not found a use for you;
If there isn’t any purpose to the story beyond forgiveness,
then there is no reason we should not forget-
It was you who ended up the bad friend, wasn’t it?
It was you who ran first, after all,
and it was you who never looked back.
So the cookie tin of you now bears only one regret
before it’s put out with the trash like all the others-
I would’ve rather found some cookies than this junk.