I hold a red rose to your nose
because you’re allergic
to affection.
I hurt you
because killing
me softly
foils my backup plans,
slathering memories
on the wall;
like the trigger of a loaded gun,
my brain explodes with a climatic
connection to the red dress you
left on the dance floor.
My heart holds onto
the twisted tongue-tied
reply on a ballroom,
the rejection is that of me.

(© 2022 AC)

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