I’d hoped we could be friends.
I’d hoped we could be more.
Maybe you’d leave your wife.
Maybe I’d leave my husband.
Maybe we’d buy a little shelter together,
past the burned out Walmart
and maybe I’d suckle six fat children
who swarmed around us like smoked bees
too stupid to sting.
Maybe it would be beautiful,
instead of desperate.
All I know is,
you walked away
from the greatest love story
known this side of West Tunnville,
and nothing here’s ever been the same, since.

This entry was posted in Fiction, Love Poems, On Depression, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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