I have lived like a fly trapped between window, and screen,
like the crisp winter breeze,
like he did when all he knew was tomorrow
all he knew was found in the waiting,
seasons in which he didn’t sleep
or when the disconnect happened
when I became he,
when living becomes existing
and all the trees in the world couldn’t build a forest dense enough to get lost in,
but the mind could.
I often didn’t recognize the bones in the mirror as mine,
and if the world were to end,
the sad dreams of people hanging in a strange limbo were to come to fruition,
then know, that sometimes honesty is the hardest part,
when you chip away at obsidian layers of truth,
hide the broken remnants behind cheerful expression,
and finally life comes full circle
but it’s too late.
At least you are yourself,
at least you lived through it,
in spite of it.
I know that the cityscape that surrounds this world you have created is often daunting,
the clouds are very much there,
the sun is also very much there,
you don’t see either as much as you would expect,
and this weather
has been both a catalyst of blooming, and a precursor to wilting.
but I have done both,
been opposite of looking glasses tinted with depression,
and stood watching the rippled ocean reflections of a boy
content in the skin he was born into,
and honestly, neither is expendable,