He loves me, he loves me not.

relationships don't always make sense. and neither does this poem.

He loves me, I swear he does.

Eye contact is made.

He blushes.

I smile.

He laughs, I giggle.

This is it.

It's what people talk about.

What songs describe.

I've seen it in films.

He looks away.

Hands in his pockets, he checks his phone.

Smiles fade, I glance away.

What?

Why would he do that?

It was perfect.

He loved me.

I wait, patiently.

He kisses my cheek.

Reassurance.

I'm glad he did that, my hand reaches for his.

I squeeze.

He doesn't squeeze back.

Again.

It happens.

He hates me.

No, he doesn't.

But he could.

He wouldn't.

But would he?

"Stop worrying," he says, "I love you."