I guess I don’t need to talk to him because I already know
everything he would say. I know
when he would roll his eyes, and that I would laugh;
and I remember the few times I was charming enough
to make him laugh; he threw back his head,
all of his pretention going up in smoke, just a boy,
sitting on my bed and looking over at me,
hope in the awkwardness.
And I can see it too:
the way he will tell me
that he’s waiting for me
and the brilliant way the snow would whisp
onto his gloves, the fabric almost soft
as he touches my cheeks.
I’ll lie to myself
and pretend I’m happy with watching him walk past me,
his intelligence all lost in his headphones
and the fake and the real getting blurrier and blurrier
behind my fading hands; I go back to
nothing, and he keeps on Living.