Felix, with Black Hair and Dark Honeyed Eyes

The first time I saw him—high summer, all flame,
He traced quiet empires in sand, unnamed.
His face held a calm that refused to disguise,
Felix—black hair, and honeyed eyes.

The kind that arrest every wandering gaze.
Except mine, I decided. (A lie in a daze.)
I lifted my hand as if shielding from rays,
As though light itself had learned my name.

I told my poor heart, Behave. Be polite.
He’s merely sufficient. (It shook in its fight.)
“Just okay,” I repeated, rehearsed and precise,
As he smiled and said, “Hey,” far too easy, too kind.

That word—so small—tilted the rest of my day.
Naturally, bravely, I walked away.

The second time came with April’s cool air,
A lake-road encounter, two bicycles there.
He wore a distracted, slightly worn face,
Didn’t look my direction—missed me in pace.

So imagine my pause, my surprise, my dismay,
When he called out behind me, gentle, “Hey.”

I kept my face steady, impeccably trained,
While my heart lost its order, joy wildly unchained.
Unbothered in posture, precise in delay,
I pedaled off quickly—
before love could stay.

—

Written: April 2024. Japan
By Casey Huang
From the Still Poetry House archive