For reasons I thought best in distant past
I fell on my own sword and let you go.
Thus I became a self-iconoclast —
a one-man dab-hand self-destruction show.
You strode into that snow-capped country white;
a virgin in my eyes you’ll always be.
I thought if we stayed friends there’d still be light;
transcending all our ancient alchemy.
But still you turned my nickel into gold
(our laughter was the grand transmuting stone).
And though we laugh not now (if truth be told)
our gilt-edged stocks have somehow strangely grown.
No matter where on earth you’ve ever been,
the truth is only I deserve your skin.
© 2012, Alan Morrison