His Existence

The year begins again, as
Autumn blooms late in the school year
I sit alone in the cold, when
He is sitting underneath a tree, reading his poem
I do not acknowledge his existence
Until a few weeks after

I feel like drowning in a tide of mystery,
At the gleam of the ocean’s glare
A black hole that sucks all that is left of his existence,
He blinks once before staring off into the distance

If all matter matters
And gravity turns to point at him,
A spiraling cone of piercing glances dents the room
And
If all sharp objects fly in his direction,
Pain is inflicted upon his pale skin but
He does not notice the rivulets of blood
Spooling down into his existence