Coming Back

You left me to go to the moon
and back. Well, you never
mentioned the coming back
part, but you did. It was
kind of like the first year
you know Santa isn’t real
and if you were to wake
up to more gifts on Christmas.
Unexpected, that’s what you
are. Maybe like that puppy
I lost three months ago, but
I already fell in love with
a new one; and your fur
is now crunchy with dirt.
Disappointing, that’s what you
are. I think about Ohio
weather when Spring starts,
but one day the snow decides
to return to newscasts.
Unnecessary, that’s what you
are. Your hair has grown
out to questionable lengths;
your face has more than ten
scars filled with fear. Love is
an astronaut; it comes
back and it’s never the same.
The difference is, rather than
crying on your sleeves
for you to stay, I’m pushing
your shoulders to get away.