on one summer night, in the dark
i said i didn't like you 'that way'
and in your eyes, shining stars
were painted one by one
with delicate paintbrushes
by her, the artist.
you told me; with quivering breaths that
it was okay if we could
"just be friends"
just like i wanted, right?
"yes, i said,
that's exactly what i wanted"
forcing myself to stay calm
not because i was,
but because that was the 'right thing to do'
or was it?
and you walked away, hands in pockets
deep in thought as each star went out
one by one and the light in your eyes was replaced
by raindrops and cloudy skies,
and later i realize,
i held the paintbrush.
