You live your life in post-it notes
pinned to the outside of balloons,
shaved, polished and properly named
for your amusement.
Skipping through fallen leaves, all with names
of used to be friends, now just concerns,
you pepper your imagination with pretty bird calls
and nice stories with happy endings.
The bad people, the ones unlucky enough
to fuck up somehow are safely tucked away
in the soles of your shoes, right next
to the dried dog shit you leave for posterity.
“Come, love me,” you say.
“Come, watch me live,” you say.
“Why are you here?” you say.
So, I came and loved and watched.
Now you say nothing. Why would you
when life is a singular word with only two letters: