The Yearbook

Us.
A half-life lived on you and me -- and an empty promise.
We wrote a book in a year.

As I read the pages now, I burn them,
Hope to never see those words again.
While you lowered your neck, and lips, to those that stood flat-footed
I stood on tipped-toes, bludgeoned by your apathy,
Burned by the avoidance in your eyes.

If a quill had touched paper and fingers touched keys,
You’d wrap your arms around me,

Around my neck.
It was always a game to you, writing memories.

Then, on-looking, I queried some respect,
I made demands and much too much.
A fool to watch and a red nose tossed to the floor.

Mascara ruined, with a pretty face,

You lifted her up while I waited --
Blankly wearing your time.

You held her hand.
It’s always the same.

I am not a missed opportunity, just an unfortunate page

That had no chance at being written.
So, I fostered the care of the many you took in

I almost forgot all their names, had I not saved them in ink and reflection

Hypocrisy at best, you fail so sweetly.

Obligation has no name when it’s holier than thou.
You were forgiven before you committed your crimes, right?
Now, we stand edge to edge on a bookend and I think of what you meant to me.
   

I may write again but I read no more.

This book is shelved.