Old Sock

I would never believe that the first thing

I thought about you

Was in fact

The only thing I now think about you.

You used to roll your index finger,

Slowly,

Definitely at me,

Almost saying,

“Come, come”

“I’m here for you”.

You weren’t.

You pulled me in

With a tight rope -

Told me to stay there

Then left me out to dry like a sock on a clothesline.

It’s not that you don’t wear me anymore;

You’re just used to reusing me.

 

And I decided

I wouldn’t deal with that anymore.

But whenever I think of you,

I still have a bitter fondness,

A cold attachment,

To the love I thought you gave me,

But that was just a mask for something else.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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