There's something to be said for bravery, I'm sure,
but when his fingers cage my wrists and he
tilts his head closer
my heart flutters for all the wrong reasons
(worries about incidents not-yet-been:
his mother, the inevitable shared puppy
impacting on my travel plans,
and the fact he hates the haircut I try
six months from now).

He takes my demurring for shyness and
a desire to be pursued
(did I mention being hunted is my
biggest fear?) rather than an
attempt to draw back
(not to fire;
rather, a withdrawing,
an escape).

I'm far too weak to have a broken heart on my conscience.
I suspect they're quite heavy.
As burdens go.

So I'm choosing to be haunted by not knowing that
our first relationship song was found during a shared lukewarm beer,
his delicate sleeping noises will entrance me for hours,
and that I will eventually find the half-drunk cups
of tea littered around our hillside bungalow endearing.

He'll be disappointed, perhaps, but tomorrow's girl will be
blonde with alternating-coloured toenails,
ochre-skinned with a penchant for skipping in leaves,
or even charmingly bookish with richter breasts.

Whichever way, it doesn't matter.
My heart will stay mine yet one more day.

Discretion is the better part of valour, after all.

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