Everyone has secrets—moments that change them.
I tell my secrets to some dandelions hugging the lichen-like turf.
He was doing lines on a mirror and had sugar spots on his nose.
It made him seem focused, with a conversational prowess.
I was in some kind of low-oxygen dead zone. You flee or suffocate.
Only jellies survive. Maybe I was afraid of emptiness—horror vacui.
After the insufflation of the only real love of his life, he texted a stranger.
I was brooding. You will never disembarrass yourself from this.
Then my love-hate carried me home. There, I’m done with it,
I thought, full of my own idea, like transparent glass
made less invisible by a light that goes straight through it
and then bends into a spectrum. Or like a winter day,
when a low bluish sunlight memorializes everything
and long shadows darken out to a void.