I Will Not Write Poems About You

You were unashamed, and I was wounded. Spider-dancing a way in and residing as if you'd always been. The nerve of you. I thought I felt the ghost touch of love that web that enfolded me, dangerous, but beautiful to look at. But darling, I will never again confuse love with simply filling in those empty spaces. I will not write poems about you. I will not remember you in that way. I'll keep you in locked rooms, and old trunks, scatter pieces of our pages and make a map so that I'll remember to never return. I'd like to burn those words instead but you would like that too much. You'd just think yourself a martyr.