Ficly

the pastry chef that loved an aspiring astrophysicist

i look at you, and you smile.
i don’t know why; i cannot see inside your head,
thus i can only imagine what thoughts
resonate throughout your mind
as your eyes glance towards mine.

could it be that the idea of me
invokes happiness in you?
no—it couldn’t be.
it must be that you find my face,
or the expression upon it,
somehow humorous.

i have a poor reputation
for making first impressions,
but it seems this time
i have succeeded in
impressing you.
but will it continue?

how will i,

(walking into the attic
with a plate full of cookies,
tapping on your shoulder and
drawing your attention away
from your telescope,)

ever compare with
these beautiful balls of gas and dust
millions of miles away,
and the way they twist and turn
and burst and form
and die and are reborn?

my romantic, poetic vision of you,
who dies inside from feeling so small,
kills herself in a stagnant river.
i sit in the water inside her lungs.
i am alone; her blood
slowly begins to overwhelm me.

but this isn’t you, and will never be.

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