I Don't Want

No. I don't want to love you.

I don't want to play songs that sound like you

until they become my whole head, I don't want

to write a poem 

if you ever call me laughing and cold

at night when I can hear my parents' sleeping breaths

across the hallway.

I want you to tell me everything

that keeps me liking you

that stops me from wanting

to reach through the air and touch

the curling edges of your hair. 

And no.

You mustn't love me, either.

I just want you to let

the shadow of your eyelashes 

fall across my face. 

I just want you to draw

stars on my palms that will later

bleed into yours if I forget

I shouldn't hold your hand.