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.