It’s not
I don’t love you.
That’s hardly the point.

I think you’d be perfect
for the curly haired, chestnut locked lady
been mooning over you longer than
you been mooning over me.

Some untoward gender representative
told you she loved you,
took your first true bout of physical affection,
and left you, without so much as word one,
to put yourself back together come morning.

You called,
I arrived- bringing tea and laughter
into tiny Amherst apartment.
I’m organizer;
I fix things.
Drying tears, telling you she wasn’t
worth it anyway.

You misunderstand
friendship for something,
inappropriately more.

I wish you’d outgrow
misplaced affection.
I miss you so,
and we can’t be friends
this way.