I wrote this in about five minutes, but am open to criticisms. Poetry is quite, well, poetic.
She crumpled the note she had written him in her pocket.
Evading eye contact, she wondered what would happen if she just took the plunge
and gave it to him.
She wasn’t shy, but she was broken and didn’t want to show
that her heart was a strung shut locket.
She was all too well versed in matters like this
and decided not to go out on a limb.
She decided to keep it to herself again and walked on home.
Little did he know, that all she wanted was for someone to call her own.
She lives her life through poetry as it has this ever encompassing way,
Of allowing her to speak words to someone of things that she would never say.