I don’t know if I loved you or I just wanted you to ache for me
the way I wrote you,
rose and lilac colored longing dripping from your words.
Maybe I loved you the only way a girl like me can,
Fiercely yet inconstantly,
and always quietly.
For not knowing who I was, even when you told me, pressing it onto my lips, my neck, my shoulders.
You told me who I was every time you touched me.
You knew me, without romance, in the milk drop early morning hours,
And still you saw something worth having.