I don’t know
if it’s the way
I see falling
star dust
in the spaces between your eyelashes
or if it’s the way
my blood sings fire
and roars a tragic warning
before slowing
to an almost-stop.
Something about
the way that
daisies grow in your footprints
makes me wonder
if God really did
make humans
in His image.
Leaves change colour
around you,
and I can promise
that it’s not for lack of warmth
but for want of beauty;
they want to outshine
someone made of
falling suns
and dandelion wishes.
There’s no cause
for the stuttering of my pulse
or the twitching of my jawline
when I see an upturned
sunflower, and immediately
am consumed with memories
of you.
There’s no explanation
for why my tongue burns
with the taste of hot chocolate
and moon ash
or to account for
the fact I feel your presence
in your absence.

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