At last, Grandpa’s least favorite; at best

my best friend’s eighth best friend. Now myriad 

impossible ways to be loved suggest

like ways to be impossibly hated.

I can’t be replaced if I don’t admit

you’re gone. Somewhere between am too concerned

and don't give a shit, this dogeared friendship

ran away from home (and never returned).

We hadn't spoken in so long, I think 

we stopped knowing each other. It reminds

me of the favorite shirt that I don't 

wear anymore, to keep a teensy tear

a teensy tear, and of Grandpa’s cufflinks,

I was afraid I'd lose so hid somewhere.