your hands are straining against coarse knots,

the rope digging in to your porcelain skin until it goes raw  

while the boy you never thought could lead lays across from you.

the dreams no longer seem like just dreams

because the boy - wait, no,

the man with the imperfect and scattered moles doesn’t smile now;

his elaborate ten year plan is about to be cut into pieces that no one can arrange to complete this puzzle.

the chessboard he has is all ruined now,

the pieces scattered across the floor like he knew he couldn’t win this game,

this war against that door you screamed for him to shut.

everyone’s whispering that it isn’t him,

that he couldn’t do this - not really,

because he used to be a clumsy good-for-nothing kid;

a fuzzy buzzcut that was in love with you.

you found out somewhere between the attempts at winning your heart

and the echos of his raw voice begging for salvation

that the man buried beneath plaid and denim always had his guard down