These days I have a young man
Who comes home
To share cigerettes and long tales.
Our moments are clandestinely sweet
And forcefully platonic.
He reads my books, my eyes,
And sometimes...
My depression-laced voice over the phone.
I voraciously read the scattered pencil marks
In his dog-eared paper-backs
to get glimpses of his youthful loneliness -
dark, curtained afternoons of his recent past,
his un-naturally euphoric evenings...
when he is forced into silence
about his sleep-filled drowsy, tired days...
No comments:
Post a Comment