are dropped on my doorstep like a cruel present--
your freckles and your smile and your green eyes like grass and summer leaves,
that nickname nobody had ever called me
how I cried into your shoulder the last day
like the world was going to end.
You said you weren't coming back, and it hurt--
an unknowable ache that wedged itself deep within me for eleven months,
eleven months of writing poems and dreaming dreams
the best friend I thought I'd only ever meet again within my own mind.
And now I almost wish that had been true
because nothing could hurt worse than
watching your beautiful green eyes skim over me that June 25th
just as I was about to say how much I'd missed you
but the words died in my throat as I watched you walk away
and began to wonder if you were a ghost after all,
not the magical girl from a summer past.
You left me a dreamer with mushroom earrings and Nirvana T-shirts
a faker, coated in concealer and lies.
(I saw right through you, but most people didn't.)
This version of you never told me I was amazing one periwinkle evening on the Big Top,
never walked with me to the dining hall or called me by that nickname,
never said It's all good with a smile strong enough to part the clouds.
This version of you was too good for me, I guess,
or just didn't care,
even though you used to care about me
a whole lot,
or at least I cared about you.
But the image I had of you in my mind
has cracks running through the center
since you're not who you used to be,
and I don't know when you'll be her again.
So I must say goodbye.
Because this, I promise,
is the last poem I'll write about you.