I flinch
when you reach for my hands.
I squirm
when your arms wrap around me.
I’m sorry
that I can’t love you.
I’m sorry
that I keep running.

We are newtons third law of motion
you are the action,
and I am the equal and opposite
reaction.

I will leave you
where my cap lands, discarded
on the arena floor.
I will shake your hand for the last
time as I receive my diploma.
I will trap you in between
the pages of my yearbook.

I will pack you away in a box
with my baby pictures,
and when I unearth you in seven years
you will smell like teenage heartache
and damp newspaper.