he loves me only as a sister—
frail petals fall, their whispers
fractured, bending beneath
the weight of a maybe, a
no.

he loves me (only as a friend)
the echo shifts, a restless
shadow, lingering in the hollow
of what could never bloom.

he loves me (but)—
attraction's embers fade,
a pale ghost of something
once alive, now gray; he
loves (me) not enough
to stay.

he loves me (yet cannot
see) beneath the mirror's skin,
the ugliness I carry,
the cracks I cradle within.

he loves me (only a memory),
childhood’s games replay
in sepia tones,
their laughter a distant
ache in the marrow of my bones.

he loves me (how I bow
to his words)—sharp shards
of blame and fire, I
surrender, a captive
to his bruising choir.

he loves me (he loves me not)
the daisy wilts in silent
confession,
a question unraveling
into dust.

all of this anger,
this rage,
this irrational irritation that continues to boil over,
was once love.

it was gentle,
and kind.
it did not bite or maul.
it did not bare its teeth with the intention of pain.
instead, with the intention of tenderness.

all of this rage,
was once warmth.

it was intimate,
and tender.
it did not bubble beneath the surface with an endless blaze.
instead, it flickered in soft wisps.

all of this irritation,
was once affection.

it was constant,
and reliable.
it did not swing with the might and fury of a rouge soldier.
instead, it stood fortified within its bounds.

all of this rage, was once love.
a love i had for you.