She wrote him a poem,

but nothing like the others before,

written for the egos of maniacs,

written for the fragility of the minds of men,

feather-light and prone to drifting.

She wrote him a poem,

because she wanted him like vanilla ice cream on a hot day,

so much so, that the taste of him was on her lips,

and she had never even kissed him, not even once,

though she could feel them, too.

She wrote him a poem,

with a rusty old lantern for light,

pink roses for affection, one open, one closed,

to signify some idiotic hope,

in both youth and wisdom combined.

She wrote him a poem,

because no other words about anything else would come,

and the pen was such an asshole about the whole thing,

but no worse than her tongue when they met face to face,

all control lost, words swallowed down hard, a bittersweet pill.