It was a thin promise, or at least it felt that way.
Made too soon with no thought.
Given too lightly.
Abandoned promises he’d left to run wild along side all of the rest.
Irresponsible promises, haunting those whom they were given.
Given like cut flowers, left scattered without the water to sustain them.
A pretty gift that withers too soon.
These were his presents.
His habit of weakly given gestures.
Flat like paper because they lacked substance.
Paper thin enough to all but disappear at the distance that he perpetually kept.
But he kept making them.
Even though he lacked the tools to build them.
Even falling prey to his own habit of broken promises, when he swore to himself that one day he’d make good.