I meet you again at the overnight museum. I refuse to return to unrequited love.

I hear your laugh cross the overnight museum before I see you.

I carry blue security light between us when our eyes meet.

I see a paper crane resting in your palm.

I understand that I need my love returned.

I remain beside you as the shutters trap us beside a stolen portrait.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a paper crane.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place unrequited love between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a paper crane to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when you love the way I love you, not me.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the gallery bench because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside the overnight museum, but you love the way I love you, not me.