By: Linda M Crate

some die young,
but something
tells me
you’ll be an old pompous man
with grandchildren
a lecherous old man who’s hated
by his own children;
i wouldn’t be
surprised
but i don’t have time to worry
about you—
you were just a character in my story
the forgotten one
who may cross my path every
now and again,
but doesn’t make a difference in the plot;
because despite what happened between us
you mean little to me anymore
i’ve forgotten the sound
of your voice,
and i can scarce remember any of
your words
which is good since they were all laced
in arsenic or lies
with charisma and insincerity;
but that’s of little
consequence—
i’ve moved on with my life and i know if
there’s anything fair in this world that the author
of this manuscript
has written in your end,
and i am simply happy in knowing that i will never be
there when you may need me because you
burnt that bridge
long ago.