I am a chameleon to you,
Or some kind of ghost,
My colors shift according to your proximity,
Or change depending on how lucky and bold I feel,
Placebos and foolish superstitions are usually my best hues,
But I still notice you in my little submarine with my peripheral spy glass,
That's right,
I'm a spy,
I know you wear cool and faded hooded sweaters and jeans in the winter that probably smell like closets and dead leaves,
And skirts that you picked from flower fields in the spring,
I know you have light allergies like mine,
As our sniffling during class seems to be contesting in some secret and unspoken competition with no rules,
Despite my quiet attention,
I feel as though you will never know these things,
All my attempts to tell you will be locked away by the pursuit of other men,
My own deep murky fears,
And the summers between us