You’re like the favorite part of my song-
I only hear it but once.
You’re like the flower that blooms on my Saguaro Cactus on the front porch,
And it stays with me but once a year, for a single minute, until the tendrils of the sun touch it
And it disintegrates down to dust
In the way you slip out of my bedroom like the shadows in the morning.
I don’t remember you telling me you love me
And even then with bitterness do I remember,
The way you averted your eyes and
Fiddled with your fingers in the nervous-y habitual way that I thought I loved.
In the way that I thought you loved me.