I wish I didn’t think of you every time
I ate ice cream but I’m reminded
of the ritual of dinners on Fridays,
and the ice cream afterwards.
If only vanilla or strawberry
had sufficed, we wouldn’t
have had that fight.
We could have continued
to talk and laugh and thrive,
a whole world left for us to explore,
though to traveling with me,
you always said no.
Simply put, simple flavors never interested you.
Everything you wanted had to be the best,
complex, like cookies and cream
with chocolate sauce, butter pecan with
whip cream on top, little edible masterpieces
for the world to see, while my scoop of
strawberry made you to scoff.
Still, you didn’t understand
why I asked us to part.
What point did you see? How would you possibly
ever have learned the truth about me,
that I’m predictable, simple, and sweet,
just like a scoop of strawberry ice cream.