Life offers us lasting friendships and some that turn out to
be quite brief but each in its own way shapes the way we view the world.
The
promises we made
Love is fleeting like summer
rain,
like August, leaving nothing in
its
wake but words that sit so
wrong
with us, that humiliate the
promises
we made as friends.
Love is fleeting like the flare
of flame
that turns to grey, that
crumbles softly
into ash.
Love is fleeting and the storms
have
slain the forests, have torn
out roots and
left us naked, standing amidst
the corpses
of fallen oaks and this is so
familiar,
so damn similar to the way we
talked,
without fury or passion,
without sorrow,
mere emptiness, mere formality,
the stiff way two old bucks
must bow
only to pace out into the green
outdoors,
neckties and suits, until all
of it is just some
tale we’ll tell our kids when
we can.
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