what are daughters if not landfills for their mothers' anger and their fathers' disdain? a skivvy to prepare bath, a spreaded bearer to bear cupbearers.

a spinster is what you are.

and that spinster's affection was a tapestry he had decided to wrap himself in until it suffocated him and then he would kiss you deeply and whisper, i love you. and then again, with his hands in your hair and his mouth on your temples and cheeks and jaw.

his fingers sinking into your back as if his grip could stop time and keep us there to such an extent that in the morning, people did not find his body but a new silhouette woven within its threads— his father did not raise him with a hound in his chest so he could howl over a loss. and yet he did. filled a chalice for you to drink.

so what makes you think he's not in love?

looking at you, he inhaled, about to talk. but you had shook your head and stumble back, walking away as you always do. the afternoon marmalade sun kisses our cold skin. a lukewarm breeze blows, swaying the dandelions like a spinster of the night on a yearning viscount's grasp brushing against his boots striding after you.

"but i need you to need me back, alright?" he plead in a quivering weep. the lump in his throat magnified. his hand shaking as he grips on the cotton fabric of his shirt, crumpling it like the hundred poems he had failed to give you, his fist pounding on his chest wresting his lungs black.

"i've loved you ever since i've known you— i couldn't help it and— i've tried to show it but you wouldn't let me; now i'm going to make you hear and give me an answer cause i can't go on like this any longer— like why didn't you tell me about the espousal? or berlin? and why didn't you write to me while you were away?"

not listening to you, letting it rain out his lips, pushing a hand through his curls, frustration and heartbreak pouring off him, his hands curling to himself as he looks at you with his tear-filled, pretty blue eyes, "why won't you ever just let me all the way in?"