It’s the friend left behind in middle school,
the annual bestie you had at camp.
They are the friend you tried to meet again
pushed to “Why don’t we try again next week?”
You start with an elongated hello,
maybe muster false joviality.
They will grapple you with an awkward hug,
not quite clingy but responsive to touch.
You can still see pieces of who you knew
under the layers of winkles and gray.
The stories you’ve heard don’t seem to quite match
the curious veneer now on display.
Their smile does not hug tight to their eyes,
they speak longingly of memories long past.
Disarming you with a few well-placed jokes
and recite their curated anecdotes;
they are still performing even off stage
keeping even close friends at a distance.
Rumors of Scandal, Neurotic and Whore
don’t seem accurate, not with how they jump,
grow quiet and apologize stiffly.
It is easy to impute as failure,
just natural result of indiscretion.
Better than to finally accept that
horrible things happen to your old friends.
And you can say hello, then walk away.