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he tells you that your eyes are petal-fringed and the aftertaste of your smile is not unlike fettuccine; when you touch, he thinks of dandelions and dew and lunar expeditions.

"dandelions are weeds," you point out.

"a weed is just a flower in the wrong place," he says. you think of stardust, how we take pieces of ether for granted, and concede that— just maybe— he is right.

later, you will pinpoint this as the moment you gave him hope— a candle all too quick to burn the blind.

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one day, he asks you if you believe in love.

"sure, for others," you say. "but not for me."

"why? i—" the words clustered in his jawbone are littered with cataracts; you look at him and for the first time see a boy drenched in kerosene: just waiting to be set alight.

"because i've never loved anyone." (this, he cannot protest.)

later, you will know this as the moment you poured the arabian sea on the bud of his bonfire.