Her dad did tell me not to come
anymore,
But she never said “don't bring
chocolates to my door,”
and so I arrived, breathing short, feet
unsteady,
Wiping hands on my pockets so the box
won't get sweaty,
Heart beating like the bass drum in a
speed metal song,
My thoughts molasses-mired, and yet
racing along,
Driven toward you by the needs I
perceive,
But a hospital crash cart's what I
really need.
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