Friend,
who told me to close my laptop,
because gangsters with yo-yos
were making me bust out
in German class:
I’m sorry.
I thought you had
forgotten about me.
Not entirely, but,
in a way.
Kind of like a kid
freshly moved from home
forgets their parents.
You made new friends.
It’s okay, they were there,
I was not.
Then you went
and did something
I probably shouldn’t
have called
stupid.
But still,
I thought he
would take up
all your time.
The time you use to have
in liberal amounts,
spent with me
making poetic nonesense
about the parts of life
no one wants
to talk about.
So I shied back.
Made myself think–
assume–
that all those hours
called my friendship
meant nothing,
because you make those hours
so easily.
But it was you who called,
not I.
You who read
my somber lines,
written to an audience
I pretend isn’t there.
You who kept trying to say
‘Hey,
I remember you.’
Because you probably knew,
I was scared.
You are my best friend after all.
So…I’m sorry,
for not being yours.
Author T.S. Lowe 