Ox-eye Daisy

When I catch his eyes in the daylight, butterflies flutter in my stomach. My heart erupts in my chest at the fervor of his hands stroking my face. Never pulling from the pools of his glossy gaze, our eyes linger in the moment before our lips first touch.

Everything stops.

Time chips in blocks of ice that melt away. And I am left lying in the grass picking petals from an ox-eye daisy, hoping that it will determine our fate.

But what does it know that I do not.

It could never know how he looks at me with lambency in his eyes. Or how the basin of maple in his olive irises beams a humble golden hue whenever he is happy.

It could never know how he does not look at me when our definite hours have passed; I walk past his cohort with longing eyes and my gaze not met. It could not know the amorphous boundaries we have established in our intimacy.

But I know.

He is childish in his affections spoken through taps and tugs. But I know he means well when he teases. I know that if he and I had it our way, we would be entangled lying in a field someplace where bees still hum. I would rest my head on his chest and he would squeeze my hand as if I would disappear if he let go. I would close my eyes and listen to the drumming of his heartbeat as he showed me a side I always knew he had.

I know that can not happen just yet, or ever.

And so I pluck another petal knowing the fear he and I live in. The fear brewing inside of our heavy hearts like a bitter batch of beer. The horror of opening the cage to yet another hungry beast with greedy intentions.

But what does it know that I do not.

And I am left lying in the grass picking petals from an ox-eye daisy, hoping that it will determine our fate.