standing in the ruins, puddles around in my feet
drips down from my branching finger tips
paralyzed and floating
dusty box with dried markers and cut photos
and there you are
my little pink plastic popper
the small rose colored rubber bump
that hopped
you were always a comfort
in the days of monkey bar heart break
and hateful flirting
can you still jump?
you can.
the only tangible thing that
hasn’t let me down
a small pink piece of plastic
that I bought in second grade for a dime
but even you will betray me
someday
you will hop away
into a dusty corner with old cassettes
and I will be left here
straddling tree trucks
feeling attracted and appalled
at nostalgia
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