Cracked

It's an eggshell. Strong. Durable.

With enough pressure it cracks.

The remnants of what was

has become an empty foreshadowing

of how it will forever remain.

Our conversations are now empty,

unknown by you, strongly seen

by myself, wielder of the observant

eyes, ears – eggshell. Yes, I am your

shell. I kept you stable, and

attempted to keep you from splashing

on a hard surface; wounded.

I was only your buffer.

But it ended. I no longer wanted to

be your shell. What was

platonic is no more. I am the trash;

the least important. With me is where

our friendship lie, in the trash –

discarded eggshell.