Misinterpretation of the Century.

The end of a pen was in her mouth,
Confusion cranked through her skull.
Letters were crumpled on the floor,
polished wood that’s faded dull.

To confess to him she loves him no more,
Could she admit to wanting another?
Molded herself into a liar,
for promises made, sold, undiscovered.

Tissues littered the lining of her pockets,
Concealed from the view of her window.
The gentleman peered through to see her,
suspected nothing, couldn’t possibly know.

An iris extended to a closed door,
He expected a view far lovelier.
She smoothed down her dress to meet him,
the iris descended as he held her.

Upon entering, he noticed her red eyes,
he prepared for her, some tea.
Glancing about, he happened to look down,
and wonder at what he’d seen.

Letters were scattered throughout her home,
never intended for him.
Womanly penmanship shattered his heart,
as he read every word of them.

Sneaking out the back, abandoning the tea,
he left for her, a note.
It cleared up his feelings he had been hiding,
the love of which he never spoke.

An iris lay withered on her doorstep,
tea sat cold upon her table.
Could she choke out that the words weren’t for him?
She didn’t think she’d be able.