i have wrists like broken flower stems and yours are just spun red roses

i swore i'd never write a poem about you. 

i whispered it to myself into the air of a too-early morning, 
still shrouded in the shadows of 2am, 
clock ticking to the next hour

and you'd left six hours ago 
but all i could recall was your voice, 
desperate edge to it, caught up in the moment 

saying, come with me please 

because you wanted to go 
and i didn't want to leave 

and it was crazy, 
you knew it was crazy 
and i knew it too 

after saying it you pulled away, 
hand slipping from where it had curled around my jawline 
and breath ghosting away 

and i said no 
even though we both knew my answer
and you looked like you were going to cry for a moment

but you didn't 
you just stepped away and pulled your jacket tighter, 
said i should go 
and i didn't protest

and that was the moment i knew you could never be poetry

realized i didn't want to write about you
even though i've broken my rule now
and you're immortalized in strains of broken stanzas

and i'm sorry, 
even though once you were gone 
i couldn't, can't stop thinking 

about what would have happened if i'd said yes

The End

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