The most limpid love I’ve ever been able
was wasted at twelve years old.
I held your hand once during Mass,
but every other interaction
has been me making a fool
of myself. I imagined you
blameless these past twenty years–
I cried when you never returned.

A Valentine remembered, small compliments recorded.
‘Just maybe he did’ always held in my heart.

Turns out, I was wrong and should never
have asked. There was never a chance
you liked me back then and you’re still
too considerate to say.


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