I touch a bent recipe card beside you. I finally understand unrequited love.

I see you inside our old neighborhood bakery before I prepare my face.

I notice warm sugar on my sleeve clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a bent recipe card before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need my love returned.

I stay as the new owner uncovers our names beneath the counter.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the flour storeroom instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of unrequited love.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a bent recipe card beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that you love the way I love you, not me.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the flour storeroom with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside our old neighborhood bakery, but you love the way I love you, not me.