and I told him, close friend
that I do not punch with the hardness of my fists
nor the redness of my knees
but with the rage upon every syllable that dances at the tip of my tongue and the front of my mouth
his name brings me, at first, a sense of wonder
a rush of oxytocin and dopamine
that course through every artery, every vein, and the tips of my capillaries
his eyes take away from the moments that run through in my head
his eyes, just for a moment in time, so quick that moment is, stop my heart in its tracks
and then they look away.
he looks away.
ashamed, possibly. perhaps, the plant he was watering did not flower. perhaps, I was not the rose he tended to and expected, perhaps I was instead, a peony. or a dandelion maybe.
he was the sun. and I was the worshipper.
now he is nothing but a passing comet, it's destination unknown
and my love for him was a supernova, huge and dramatic; then small, and disappeared.
