When I walked home barefoot, cursing my existence
It isn't like me to give up on my shoes that easily
I left them because we have often walked together and too often
I left them for you to discard, in the manner of your choosing
For they need not ever be touched by my hands again
They carry the dust your sandals kicked up
That dust has no place in my footing anymore
Mine are the maroons, next to the other two pairs
I haven't questioned whose, and I need not know either
They seemed to be left at your doorstep in a hurry
Just like I did, as I walked away from your arms
You could keep them as a trophy, of all those who left
They seem to have been left quite recently too I checked, I confess
I wish you grow your feet to maybe wear a few, maybe my maroons too
Then you could lie and pretend, they are yours too
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