a poem for no one

When we met you were not as you are now:

harder than enamel,

sharper than chipped glass.

 

You were soft then.

Sweet, as children often are,

filled with mirth that bubbled

and sang, intoxicating us

like good champagne, clear and true.

 

You stopped laughing that way long ago,

when we grew older,

but were still younger than we are now.

 

You say she ruined you.

Knowing, but not quite admitting,

that you did it to yourself,

trusting her that way,

with your heart, free and deep.

 

Years of too much and too little

left old trusts in the shadows

and our flutes, once fine, are now flat.

 

Someone asked me today

if I trust you, wholly.

The way I did when we were just kids.

 

But the truth is, I don’t.

Not since “she.”

Not since “you.”

And it’s a shame, really.
For we could have become such old friends.