The ink if front of you blurs into shapes that remind you of him, blue.
So blue.
Ironically you find the more you try not to think about he floods your senses.
You wonder why the universe reminds you of the child of Apollo you befriended those many years ago, when grubby hands and missing teeth exclaimed more than you could ever now, an innocent honesty in your gazes expectant of what could be.
The bell rings and you sit, and you ponder, the familiarity eats at you. He sneaks in, his usual silent steps lulling your senses into a nostalgic comfort under the afternoon sun and peach trees as you lay drenched from your impromtu swim in the creek.
The sun will rise again, when there’s nobody around, on the swing set at the old playground. The silver line blurs, you want to hear his voice - he’s no longer a boy, now a man. Reminiscing such sweet days.
He’s grown like the plants you tend to, but he’s hideous you see,even the grandest, oldest, trees are nothing as they rot always inside out; perhaps that is precisely what happened to him. He’s rotting, maybe he was rotting when you met him, unable to change or maybe he didn’t know how to change but once he gave up, you knew he couldn’t come back. It will take a while, but you’ll return to life. Steady, before the piped piper’s melody had led you away, turning everything into that shade of sky blue. Cloudy, lost, maybe losing yourself in those blues.
Except in your eyes, you can travel the world, people’s embraces, and the centuries that separates you from him but coming back to that tree. Collapsing in front of that tree. Wanting nothing more than to rest at last in front of the beloved tree. It’s ghastly.
Fruitless aims in front of him, tall, broad and bright yet others shy away making excuses like the sun is too bright for Icarus was a warning cry for mankind. But if you’ve run into the fire once why stop to think before running to him because if anyone truly knew him they would be able to tell he was definitely the moon.
The moon who elevates and amplifies the light that shines on him, the moon that allows rest from tiring monotonous days, the moon that causes the changing of tides with such charm and grace that they stare in wonder every night at the enigma he is. Yet the moon continues steady through the days and nights.
You step out into the corridor, dawn is fast approaching you don’t think you’ll be able to make it to bed fast enough to grieve the boy you lost. Ironically, the boy you found under the moonlight in his stupid khaki trousers and cravat, the boy you stole glances at as he followed you around like a lost puppy, the boy who you held as he trembled about the dog he couldn’t save, the boy king who was strong and weak, the child capable of tragedies who was unsafe in his own home, the first person who had held your hand, snuck you away to banquets, dressed you in gold and silk, the boy you placed a ring made of daisies,and the boy who created war’s when he smiled, the boy that was both your Helen of Troy and Achilles. Now he was long replaced.
Shedding his name, skin, soul and smile.
He now stood by shadows and laid across surfaces, apathy embracing him tighter then his parents ever had. He’d grown up handsomely devilish, his face stirred something in your gut. But he was long gone, don’t you see you fool?
The tree is standing, but it does not live, it does not grow and it will rot inside out till it topples and crushes you as you lay seeking comfort.
Perhaps falling in love made you a lot more reckless than you’d like to admit, this gamble was a losing man’s bluff, so pathetic waiting for the dead to rise, when the living wish to die.
