if only

Under a starlit sky I faced your blade

With an expression of stillwater.

The ripples of your own were numerous,

Far too many to count.

You were nervous. Only natural, you were nervous

Because this was the moment where you would kill me.

If you were not nervous,

I had a right to be concerned and upset

To be murdered by such an unfeeling monster.

If I must die,

Let me die by the most passionate hands,

The most conflicted, romantic hands one has ever had the pleasure of dying by.

You raised it an inch higher

Rather than bring it crashing against my porcelain chest.

So easily broken, so easily cracked, it would only take one movement.

One downward stroke of pure undiluted energy.

Energy that made me shiver with delight.

Please.

This way it wouldn’t be my fault.

No more dreaming of driving into a tree.

No more wishing for my plane to crash.

No more sobbing on that cold, unforgettable bathroom tile.

Your cheeks puffed out and you dropped the blade with a shudder.

You turned and ran.

Coward.

I sat on the ground, admiring the way the blade reflected the stars.

I cried and waited for you to return.