On Saturdays, my king and I would play,
Two kids, moving around our concrete castle
as if we ruled each delicate blade of grass.
Scrapes appeared on our knees and blisters covered our feet,
forming and fading as the days passed.
When we were together, silence became laughter,
and simple games became our entire world.
On a Sunday, he told me the news.
The infinite cul-de-sac that we once reigned over
suddenly became small.
His father, the newfound villain, was taking his family
to the barren wasteland called Kansas.
Our endless time suddenly stopped.
My king had been dethroned.
On a Monday, the first boxes entered the moving van.
We ran off, refusing to watch our kingdom collapse.
Instead, we chased the vibrant sunset
and allowed our laughter to fill the empty
spaces that were appearing in his home.
That night, we swore that we'd rule this street again,
and this goodbye would not be our last.
On a Tuesday, their red truck pulled out of the driveway
for the last time. My small legs tumbled after them,
as if I'd be able to pull them back.
But, the whoops and hollers of the other
neighborhood children could not drown out
the silence nestled
in their corner of the street.
Today, I cannot remember
how many years it has been since we spoke.
Our glittering kingdom is nothing but ruins.