You moved on before giving notice.
I got lost in the smoke and mirrors
and barely noticed the empty hours,
and you always had such good answers.
Now, you keep saying you still love me,
you’ll always love me. Yes of course you will,
like you love your good wines and Armani suits.
And now you want to know
why we can’t be friends.
Friends? Now?
And the smiling,
like all’s well, cat and canary.
So, how’s what’s-her-name
who everyone says looks just like me,
until they get up close.
Being nicked to death
is a painful way to get thin.
According to interested bystanders,
I’ve handled everything very well.
My running repartee,
a blend of brilliant hindsight & melancholia,
has apparently not killed anyone,
and I am eternally grateful to red lipstick
which makes me look healthy.
But since I have been winnowed out,
deposed if you will,
people tell me I appear taller.
Apparently, managing one’s own baggage only
and no longer catering for and to crowds
allows one’s head to sit higher
than other people’s bottom lines.
Perhaps I should be thanking you:
I always wanted to be five feet seven.
