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So I was right, when I
pointed at this bread fruit tree
two years ago, and
told you that that was how
this love may end.

I told you that it may fail
and fall unexpectedly,
like the huge heads
of those Ukwa fruits,

You smiled then, and
holding my hand, your
chiseled pair of honest lips and innocent eyes
reassured me
that that was not possible.

But we no longer talk!
You neither return my calls, when
you miss them, nor my texts,
when you read them.

And just  yesterday, I saw
you, holding a man's hand.
He was tall and looked rich.
And he was not me.



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