i will keep skipping stones in the dark until
my feet grow wet and my ears become filled
with the pitter-patters echoing across the pond

will these whispers reach your daffodils that sway so far away?
will your flowers feel the warmth that i offer to the breeze?
will the winds lay mercy on the hope that i hold so close?

so for selfish reasons, i ask you to look away, narcissus:
your love for that reflection has already dug you
a grave deep enough to smother apollo's sun

and i, painted forever as foolish, naive echo—
and i, who have already lost my voice and home—
my love, i cannot bear to lose you, too