I never promised you roses,

and you told me you hated roses,
since the lives of those cliché little things
would end far sooner than our life together.
So I never picked them up for you.
Instead I brewed us coffee in the morning
and made breakfast in bed for just the two of us.
We’d sit for hours in the morning sun
shoulder to shoulder, books in hand
but really millions of miles apart
in some far corner of Scotland with Jamie
or maybe in Westeros with Arya.

I never promised you a ring,
because you told me you didn’t need it,
that a piece of paper that bound us together
was cliché as well.
That we were fine the way we were,
day drinking when I had Saturday off,
and getting high only to watch Doctor Strange
at two in the morning.
I made sure I tucked you in those nights
when you always craved a burrito.
So I’d go get you one,
then I’d tuck you into our Star Wars sheets.

I never promised to love you,
for I thought you already knew I did.
But it turned out you wanted roses and rings
far more than you wanted coffee and breakfast in bed,
day drinking on Saturdays
or getting high and driving miles to get a burrito,
but only from that one place you like
that you can never remember the name of.
You wanted normalcy over Star Wars sheets,
but ultimately you wanted to be free of me
more than you wanted to be with me
And all I did was love you.
So you left me in the cold,
Dying for all the world to see.

Now, I have tan sheets,
have quit drinking altogether,
and refuse to eat any form of burritos.
I stock the apartment with roses,
pick up coffee on my way to work,
don’t eat breakfast.
I don’t wear rings.
But there’s one thing I want you to know.

I never promised you roses.