Don't Drink Bees

I thought we were friends, and that would last forever.
We'd never let each other down. I was wrong.

I was a stepping stone in a puddle. You hopped across the water, using my back; then you walked on, leaving me there, face sunk down in the mud.

I was a shelter in the raining hail. You stayed inside me until the storm passed. You closed my door tightly and left me standing there.

I was a log stretched out over a canyon. You crawled over me, stood up, brushed my rotting bark from your jeans, and continued on your way.

I was a jigsaw puzzle on a rainy day. You put me together; you pulled me apart, tossed me in the box, and moved on to watch a re-run on television.

I was a fence around your house. The wind couldn't blow hard enough to knock me down. You moved away to the city and got an apartment.

I was a winter leaf.