Conservation

To save myself the paper 

I won’t tell you that I love you. 

I like this notebook and

there’s enough terrible metaphors, I think

about broken promises and broken hearts.

I should know, I’ve

written a few of them. 

All I know is 

I’ll never love anyone the way I did at fifteen-

naive but fearless. 

So to save us the energy of 

lifting your baggage and mine,

of screaming matches and

of meeting your mother

I won’t tell you.

You’ve heard it before, I’m sure, from 

some other girl who looks a bit like me,

(I snuck into your drawers to see her photographs)

so that will have to suffice. 

Besides, behind the candles and the roses

and the glow of adoration 

circling around your irises,

I can still hear the echo of 

“emotionally unavailable.”