I'm already forgetting about you.
This ceaseless move-ahead is making
it hard to fathom or focus on the
reality of you no longer being here.
Not dead, but excommunicated
from my life just as surely.
Barely had time to pack your things
before they shut off the spigots:
e-mail, done. Company phone,
we'll take that back. Did they
even give you a chance
to let your former clients
and industry friends
know about your new condition?
One that is not fatal if caught,
but the dreams are dead, anyway.
You've been here since the '70s.
Worked with me for nearly a decade.
The next manager in line better
prepare to have her neck slashed
by the next manager in line after.
I will be trained via e-mail
with the newest protocols
to sop up the gore.
I take that back. I can't forget.
Always concluding your thoughts
with a "And that's the story."
I thought it was a tic.
"And that's the story."
Not the final thought.
Not your final story.
But mine knowing you.