Late autumn I meet you near the promenade. There's always something tangible in the air when one is out so late with loved ones. I speak of more than fireflies, though they too bear witness to your feverish confessions.

Under bare trees you

Say you wish you were a flit.

I wish you were, too.

The stone bench, cool beneath our thighs. Light mist clings in droplets to your eyelashes; I cannot stop looking. Your beautiful eyes, green as the ocean, as the leaves in spring, as the frog's pond. You cannot look at anything. Perhaps shame or guilt turns your head. There is nothing shameful in wanting what you do not have. Everyone covets. Crickets serenade you as you stand.

I sit abandoned,

In company of fireflies,

Watching you retreat.

Night drags on, there was so much I wished to say. Normality is overrated, and even if it's not, change is good, too. The flower blossoms, and still it is true to itself. You simply blossom differently. I will love you regardless. My thighs are getting cold; the chill gives them gooseflesh. I pluck the petals from roses meant for you: you love me, you love me not… Eventually, exhausted, I collapse and dream of a world in which everything is as it should be. My visions are perfect.

Silently I cry

To whoever will listen:

Please let her be whole.