In my first sighting of you,  
I painted a picture I could not erase,  
a canvas of disdain—your dress, your gait,  
the way your laughter danced like light,  
your long hair, a glowing shroud,  
your bronze skin, kissed by the sun,  
and the flowers you nurtured,  
while I, a ghost of my own mind,  
waged war against my garden,  
killing blooms for the weight I carry,  
the burden of looking at lives not my own.  

Yet, in the depths of my heart,  
I found admiration where hatred once thrived.  
I never craved your light;  
I like my eggs with edges burnt,  
my garden a desolate expanse,  
but in this solitude, I am not alone.  
What I know is a quiet truth,  
that to admit my feelings is to drown  
into the depths of my own despair,  
but I write this, inspired by the  
long shadows of your existence,  
a reflection of my own tangled soul.