As if you weren't adored;

as if there wasn't a lush field outside your bedroom window that grew

fractal organisms, yearning to please, not the sun, but you;

as if that same, neglected sun didn't weep after setting, betting

that your comprehension was pretending;

you leave.

As if you weren't adored;

as if you understood the complexities of the sun behind the field's indifference,

the solar body that protects our light and warmth even as it descends into dissonance;

as if you wanted those immeasurably dense eyes, in order to be the latest obsession,

pitied by the field (oblivious to the pity recession) inhaling your lie soaked “confessions”;

you leave

this place, which has squandered its supposedly bottomless well of sympathy,

and lost an unappreciated star that went interred, unnoticed, under 6  feet of apathy;

my life, which is just another blade to overlook, but knows enough not to pay mind

to the direction that this august meadow projects, hoping itself isn't blind;

this Earth (the only witness to your inconspicuous treachery),

hoping you never feel fulfilled as you thought you'd be.