He Kissed Me and Then Went Home to Her

I

He kissed me like punctuation—

a comma, not a period.

Brief, breathtaking,

a clause I never got to finish.

II

Said he’d call.

Didn’t.

I archived my dignity beside his name

in a folder titled Delusion Studies, Vol. IV.

III

His girlfriend—

Yes, she still exists.

Their love: inconvenient, intact,

and probably doomed by chapter three,

but I’m not the author. Just a footnote.

IV

Butterflies?

More like a biological betrayal.

Heart: fluttering.

Brain: screaming.

Body: traitorous.

Me: writing poetry in the ruins.

V

He is perfect—for me.

But I’m not what perfect picks.

I’m what perfect thinks about

on silent car rides

when she’s talking, and he’s not listening.

VI

If I were braver, I’d move on.

If he were better, I wouldn’t have to.

But we’re both just characters

in a romance novel no one finished

because the ending was too honest.