they would make you tea,
mixing the honey in slowly
so that you’d never have to worry about
water splashing out to burn.
they would tell jokes out of nowhere,
their intuition guiding them,
the highlight of their day being the sound
of your laugh.
the thing about young love is that
the vibrance and the passion
tend to grey.
the gentle tugs on your sweater
begin to feel less like home
and more like a trap.
you catch them looking at a classmate
in history class
the same way they used to look at you
and it stings.
you’re sipping coffee seated across from them,
black so that the bitterness
covers the other messes you’ve made.
they won’t meet your eye
and you know that they have tired of you,
the dark circles beneath their eyes
a sign they stayed up late
speaking in hushed tones
to someone they love more.
you are so sick of throwing the word ‘love’
around and back in their face.
the heat you feel now is not the warmth of their body
you used to know so well.
it’s fury, it’s hatred,
it’s their cool expression and your cold fingers
that haven’t held a hand in a
very long time.