The moment where God says

I am sorry.

We’ll never get a high school
                                                   prom, first kiss.
   I bought that boutonnière
                        for you, but gave it to—
   Flowers die everyday,
so do young boys who fall
                           in love with wrists,
            the way you held a trumpet.

I want to love you,
               but the city is on fire.
Everyone including me
         turned their head, each time a boy
                     had his chest checked like a truck tire.
         No one is meant to live
                                          like this: afraid to kiss. This is it.
   Everyone turns their back
                                 in the bar. Your chest holds more air,
                  a man with a billy club wants
                                                      to be sure,
I love you,
                  but I can’t—

John Andrews is working on an MFA in Poetry at Texas State University and is the current managing editor for Front Porch Journal. His work has also appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Stone Highway Review, and Aim For The Head: an Anthology of Zombie Poetry.