That sharp little bit left
You moved after
you were orphaned
and we lost touch,
or was I shut out,
and either way
it was gone.
Some mistake I made
that was never mentioned
aloud
but broke it all
down to less than distance,
or convenience,
or time.
Less than any
excuse.
If only I could recall
with certainty,
but a thousand slights,
a hundred hurts,
countless unforgivables
cloud all my friendships.
All those things
we forget
to ask forgiveness for.
Was friendship the price
of death
or distance
or deeds undone
or was it something simpler
like sour lemons
or the feeling of nothing
between two and time?
I regret little.
But I regret that vine
allowed to wither.
