Sunset Shadows

Fallen ochre leaves spin
from towering oak trees
and land in his hair,
giving him a mane of fire
that crowns his head
like a halo.
He is the autumn air
that surrounds us in this twilight,
and I pull the leaves from his hair,
taking my time
in destroying the serendipitous image
of a boy
kissed by even nature;
he is too good for me.
I try to tell myself
as I pluck the leaves
and send them spinning toward the ground
that this is fantasy,
nothing this good ever lasts
and he has a beauty
waiting for him at home,
meaning I can only ever be
his shadow.

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