i don’t know why you are hanging around here
pretending that we are somehow connected
to each other or to some idea that somehow
still feels real to you (if not, me)
i have had enough of the playground
and the playing house
i am old enough to drink wine without suspicion
and it doesn’t make sense for the bottles
to sit on the shelf collecting dust
while i wait for you to come home
there once was a life that wanted to start
and i am happy to let it go
because you had some idea of how it could be better
without me in it (or perhaps, you)
yet you linger here waiting for me
to pick up the memories of an imaginary past
and reminisce with you about all of it
without lying or crying or dying
and i don’t know why it matters to you
to be here now
when i have already stopped playing the game
when i have already grown up
and forgotten you (or really, me)