"nothing gold can stay" (frost, 1923)

He keeps his fingers close to backspace keys,

ready and willing to deplete and delete as necessary.

He keeps his fingers close to backspace keys and far from hers,

intertwining only when the hour is late,

and he doesn't know how to treat her like gold,

but he watches her like gold,

and she wears a lot of gold.

But nothing between them is gold.

He wears her around his neck for five hours,

waiting and watching the clock change,

rehashing all the advice people gave him to 

'play it cool.'

But cool is a lot warmer 

than cold.

And I can't be the only one feeling the difference.

Her eyes burn and her throat swells,

but he's a half-hour past caring enough to cure it.

She would fix him, though.

She would fix him before she ever thought about fixing herself.

It's dangerous that way.

The way she'd trade herself for his smell,

how the minutes don't stop mattering after the texts are sent,

how she makes hour marks 

and minute marks 

and year marks

and those marks 

own her heart rate.

She would fix him before fixing herself,

but he's more of the put-your-own-oxygen-mask-on-

before-you-help-others kind of guy.

She would leave herself before she left him,

but he's more of the late-hour-last-minute,

watch-you-from-across-the-room kind of guy.

She cuts herself on his edges,

mends herself on his smiles,

and dies when he plays it 

too cool,

and the temperature drops,

and her heart rate goes with it.

She knows he keeps his fingers close to the backspace key,

and she knows her words are too important

for his fingers to own.

But she knows

she isn't strong enough

to stop him.