That might be the thirteenth

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The unlucky thirteenth they say.
Removing from the way,
And abolishing the magic,
That might not have been tragic.

On the the fourteenth before Easter.
With all the courage I could muster,
Fighting to leave and salavage,
That might not have been savage.

By the fifteenth connections were built.
And how you and I had started to melt.
It felt like too soon for everything
that might not have been a fling.

The dates from here now jumble,
As our feelings we mumble.
Texts, calls, and meetings follow
That might not have been hollow.

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