You lied to me.
The sting of betrayal a
hard-etched memory,
face burning past a good
101 degrees fahrenheit.
We all know your plant-less pots of
promises and what you did when I
asked you to check the seasoning.
I have nightmares that maybe you won’t get on
the next plane to Angeles or
Seattle, or even the
capital of Antarctica. And I know that I won’t be standing
on the landing, waving
blown-through tissues and screaming wet tears,
for you.
I let you lie to me.
Because it’s a common fact that we all know
the disasters you’ve caused and dreamed of,
and I’ve only been a wilting tree in the
epicenter of your earthquake.