There is poetry in the way I held your hands, keeping them warm on the night before you left

There is poetry in the way electricity flowed through your hands to mine, into my brain and blood

But there is no poetry in the way those same hands left bruises on my arms, red hand marks on my back

And there is no poetry in the way I don't know why you did it

You keep me up (still), wondering the same thing

If you will listen to her when she says no

**NO MEANS NO, *******.