" This isn't love," she said,
It's a poem.
And she handed him some words
That whorled and skittered,
Blazing like a sun in the era
Between them.
"This isn't "Au revoir,"
He replied,
Giving her his farewell.
I expect that startled you, didn't it?
You weren't expecting a break-up.
Poets usually deliver THOSE
With fireworks and floods.
Sometimes endings are
Because they just have to
Be.
And that's OK.
Ah, but wait!
If you linger here, you'll
See him slip inside
To warm himself.
He will look nonchalant, understanding that
She will pretend she doesn't
Know he's here.
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