Raise a flag, cast a glance,
and it’s all over now.
It was me. I triggered the mechanism
that cut off my own hands.
When I had the chance,
I should have kissed her
Should’ve slipped her poems
on folded paper,
the sweat from my palm
still lingering on the creases.
Should’ve bought her flowers
or some similarly obscene gesture.
Or left vivid lipstick prints
in the soft angle of her breast.
If I’d known that was a singular moment,
I would have devoured her –
no hesitation blooming
like a tumor.
A fish-eye gaze on that basement room,
the only two people in existence.
Even though your ignorance was not permission,
your silence not a gesture inside,
I smuggled her heart for a little while.
And your heart may burn with love for her,
but my touch left her scorched through the skin
so deeply the marks cannot be washed away.