The thing about you
is that your life
is so inflexible - when
you cross me off
the schedule
there's no "maybe later,"
"a different day."
There are simply
no other days
for me to fit myself into,
no stalled plans
to still bring to fruition.
It's a cut, clean and simple;
the snipped edge of
a laminated schedule
that gets brushed away
with the trash.
I would love
to sticky paste myself
back in
like a little love note
that's worn and rubbed
- constant declarations
of cherishing still
held in the folds,
but each time
you've already forgotten
where I fell, and
I've come to realize
you don't
own any glue.
