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.
Poetic Trials 