She was not the type of girl I'd write poetry about
I didn't tell her there were windchimes in her eyes
or swingsets in her laughter
I didn't sit next to the darkness
trying to tangle her in snarling barbed wire blue lines
I didn't carve her name into the park benches of my thighs
we were not initials encased in an uneven heart
But she picked the lock on my basement door with her fingers,
hung raspberry bruises around my neck like medals
and taught me that two smiles stretched wide enough
form a complete circle.
A/N: It was nice, while it lasted. She has the original handwritten copy, if she hasn't burned it.