Echoes of a Fever Dream I Never Had (And Never Will)

Sugar-coated cinnamon sticks,
Your fingers pluck them from a dusty glass jar
On a honey-baked solstice day.
 
Sun shining bright, bright in my eyes,
And in yours,
Reflecting and refracting off of your ebony curls, too.
 
I can't tear my eyes away,
Your laugh echoes off of technicolor metal,
In this juvenile park full of others.
 
Others, others--people I don't notice,
People who may as well be ghosts,
For all I see them.
 
I only see you,
You in this wickedly hot summer sun,
Looking at me with your moss-colored eyes.