Our heart aches for the one that got away.
No Rascal Flatts or Little John suffice
To bring to life our phantom limb. We say
That we’re, like, over thee. The sacrifice—
The sting of truth too sharp to take—she’s gone.
Is it fair?
It blows. Szorady won’t stop crying. Chris
Pretends that she’s moved on.
While Jason claims you drove a man insane,
Young proofreaders wish they’d stolen just one . . .This
Attempt to bring you back is just the point
That memory’s brought us to. The painful speed
At which you ate, when at the lobster joint,
Concavity, yoga, and auto-fear; they lead
This pen to page, enraged that fate could rip
Our precious E-Ring from her proofs. Since your good bye
The Luscious Verde soul’s grown meek. It craves
You like a bacon strip.
You’re right. The length that makes our tears run dry—
The distance that stretches from us to Erin Graves.
-- Keatz, 2007