Boots

These boots were once for walking. Long ago, perhaps. Now they hold feet, attached to ankles, but no body to contend with. Alone, yet together, the perfect pair, or quadrant I suppose. But what was I meant to do? My two bestfriends. I thought I could trust them. They claimed they weren’t “together”, not now, not ever. So when I found out what was I to do? They were all I had. And they would leave me. Alone. And they insisted on those stupid matching boots. Red meant love for them, rage for me. A pair for each, obtained in our trip around the world.Then why did I not get any? Four boots doesn’t work out for three people. A pair is two, never three. Two’s a party, Three’s a crowd. I knew sooner or later they would get sick of me. Take their perfect little relationship to the next country, or across the globe. They can’t leave if they don’t have feet. So what if they’re dead? Just the three of us, together forever.