there’s a beautiful boy sitting on the curb
of a street somewhere in that time right before
the sun sets and his head is in his hands
and he’s never looked more beautiful or more alone
and you want to tell him it’ll be fine,
that it’ll be okay, that soon he’ll outrun whatever’s
doggin’ his heels, that it may seem crowded now
but there’ll always be more earth
than people, or else we’d be driving
through ghosts and the whole
point of driving is to run away from them.
but he doesn’t have the right kind of eyes
to believe that. they’re red and bloodshot
like he’s been crying too long
to ever listen to you.
you don’t sit down next to him. he does
not expect you to. he may or may not
know you’re even there. if he did,
he’d make you leave because you don’t
belong with him, this angel of a boy,
you don’t want to put him together
you want to watch him finish falling apart
because broken things are beautiful,
because irreparable things are beautiful,
because you’re a human being and you don’t
overlook the tear tracks drying on his cheeks
in order to call him beautiful, but relish in them.
the silence breaks like the first few seconds of a storm,
with enough unexpected ferocity that
you find yourself wondering what you’ve gotten into.
“Why doesn’t anyone call Lucifer brave?
It must have taken a lot of guts to
turn to your father and say, ‘Wait Dad,
maybe you’re wrong. Just—just wait a second.’”
“Never mind,” he says a few seconds later.
“Forget it,” he says as he gets up and leaves you on that curb,
scuffing his feet as he walks away, shadow
trailing after him like drooping wings.
somewhere down the road, he’ll trip and go down
and stay where he’s fallen.