Everyone does it at some point.
to wither of hands,
mimicking petals, then
plunging into deep repose
slowing motions
too moments breath;
reflections of violet to compose
she says, 'don't walk, don't show-'
and her waves ascend,
he shouldn't argue with such shivering despair
failing lights
dress the scene in confusion,
and perhaps happiness elsewhere
Of all the poems I've read, ever, this is my favourite. "he shouldn't argue with such shivering despair", and he won't, out of love, or perhaps even pride.