Linger on the arms of the wristwatch,
and I wait for you to arrive
with slow swagger and a pocket full of excuses.
This is our story of ghost texts
and missed meetings, when you say
you will be there, and I leave
before your feet rest in my shadow.
I do not live in the valley of the oversized egos,
and yours is a giant; an idol that dangles from your neck.
Your neck must be so sore
from the weight of your selfishness
or the edge of each friendship ax
slamming against your neck.