You called the night before Valentine's,
a normal call, out of nowhere—like always.
Said, Let’s pretend, just for fun,
that we’re each other’s valentines.

And I played along, like I always do.
Like I haven’t spent years loving you
in the spaces between our calls,
in the silences after we say goodnight.

You told me to pretend you'd sent dark chocolates,
the only kind I'd like, you made sure to ask.
Along with of course, a bouquet of roses—
but curiously you said you’d kept one stem for yourself.

So I’d know that when yours wilted,
it was time to send more, you said.
And for a moment, I let myself believe
that love could be that simple, that beautiful.

But of course, it was only for fun, right?
Just the quiet truth settling in my chest—
that no matter how much love lingers unspoken,
we will always be something imagined,
always a story that never steps past pretend.