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.


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