There are bruises on your knuckles
where you can never heal, you sweet sweet boy.
You grasp his collar like lifeline, memorize
the stitching with your palms.
He never says 'thank you',
looks at you with bright bright eyes,
calls you home, calls you brother.
'I'm sorry', you tell him with all the words
you've kept hidden, 'I love you'.
You haven't been this scared since the tenth grade and his dad thought
about moving them away from this town
full of shadows and you you you
you sweet sweet boy, you smell his skin
and it smells like yours, and you can
no longer distinguish love for her and
love for him, but this is not a tragedy.
This has never been a tragedy, we walk
a fine line between anger and apathy and
he would never lie about something
as important as this.
Your dreams, have you thought about closing your eyes and forgetting? Wake up.
His tears mean he hasn't mastered
he knows your name
like the back of his hand.
it fits comfortable in the back of his throat.
Blood, rusted on the back
of a swing set, your head is dizzy from
the sights and sounds, you want to press
your lips to his ear and let him know everything.
Tell him now, write your own ending
and exhale, exhale, breathe out.