I'm sure you remember the "glory days,"
when you wrote your name in cement,
and carved it into the bark of dead trees.
When you weren't too cold, you blanketed yourself in the snow
and made snow angels,
And when you weren't too hot, you were daring enough to dive into
the deep end, even though so many people had drowned before.
You were strong enough to pull a sleigh full of people,
but weak enough to fall apart when someone else took your place.
Don't you remember?
You always said that fate and love and anything in between was a pile of bullshit,
but secretly, in the wrinkles of your noggin, you believed.
You were childish enough to say that Santa was real,
but mature enough to know that life was a cruel place, and a lot of people were great fiction writers.
You found long nights with the fireflies appealing, and kept them (like your dreams) in a tiny glass jar.
when you realized fate and love really was a pile of bullshit.
When you loved reading the fiction you warned me about,
and a little bit too much.
When you realized Santa didn't come to bad little boys and girls, and he left a pile of coal at your doorstep.
When the fireflies' lights died, and your jar shattered into pieces.
When you had stapled yourself together so often,
your skin had run out of room.
When you didn't know how you felt about anything anymore,
and when you gave up on feeling anything at all.