I saw you for the first time in the summer,
when sunflowers mourn the sun at night -
the loss of a light and adjoining heat,
which nurtures restlessness
in the confined atomic particles,
causing them to dance
and grow tired of each other until
ice becomes liquid
and liquid becomes vapor...

Cycles are consistencies in nature,
beginnings and ends that are defined by perception.
And so, in a way,
I'm not the first person
who thinks she loves you,
nor the last -
just a witness to a portion of your evolution,
which will end the same way it began:
a darkness constructed of eyelids,
as sweet as silence.

A sour sap of jealousy
seeps upon my thoughts when I see you.
I feel like screaming,
like pulling my hair out,
because unwanted epiphanies are pretty weeds;
dandelions that seed with winds.

A sap that blinds sufficiently
for me to believe you possessed green eyes.

I don't want to love you.

And yet,
I'm content with
the uncomfortable certainty of confinement,
of silence,
of distance and uninteraction,
with trailing eyes like shooting stars.