NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Thirty

Done done done. Tad late on this last poem, and I've edited it a few times since midnight. I won't tell if you won't.

Taunt

She
keeps wearing
the same clothes

every
single time
our paths cross,

as
if reenacting
over and over

the
last time
we were alone,

my
encore of
that blown moment

flawless,
especially since
we've stopped talking.

I
sit, note
folds of cloth

I
might have
pulled harder on

if
hindsight came
seconds after choice.