Sonnet for a Man I Don't Love

The night’s surreal and muted by the breeze.

The moon, complacent, brushes back the clouds.

She glimpses us between the leafless trees;

Recedes again into her shadowed shrouds.

Mocking leaves lay cackling in the grass,

Paper-frail in contrast with quartz dew.

Misted corners frame the panes of glass

I seem to gaze through as I look at you.

Solid sighs sublime1 in midnight air.

My crystal breath leaves no trace of mist.

Still as cold as when it entered there,

The night I breathe again escapes my chest.

I think you talk of nothing though you talk of dreams. 

Around your fevered words my ennui streams.

I wrote this in college, after a particularly annoying "date" with a guy who clearly had only one thing in mind. The original version contained this footnote:

1: Sublimation is the chemical process by which a substance makes a transition directly from its solid to its gaseous state. The verb form is, in fact, "sublime v.: CHEMISTRY
(of a solid substance) change directly into vapor when heated, typically forming a solid deposit again on cooling."