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He was a neon sign
He was a star, shine,
A broken blue line
across which our hearts ventured.

He was an angel blue
He was a me and a you
He was decent too
but we held out him out to dry.

He was a given great
he was a taken hate
he was someone's date
but now he's a gray headstone.

He was loved as one
he peaked with the sun
he was the night's fun, done,
but now we wipe our eyes and say it was hate.

He was the town poster
emotional roller coaster
we all say such decent words
that it could only be true.
That we could have loved him.
Loved you.

He's a beloved sermon
A nightcap, bourbon,
a whispered prayer,
a loud proclamation.
An exclamation.
A declaration.

But he was mine too.
He was my boy before
he was yours, and yours,
and yours, and yours.

He held my hand,
my head, my heart.
He was my end, my start,
he was my nighttime need.

He wasn't yours before he
was mine, before I was his,
before he was strung up on
some avenue for holding my
hand back in the summer heat
with only good intentions.
When you scoffed, and flipped
your eyelids, and made all sorts
of shabby gestures in knowing
some beautiful boy, who was mine,
who was his, who was good and
loved and decent, even before
you said it to be true.

Who was my date,
who was my given great,
who, save the date, became
the town crier's post boy.
Who wasn't a lot like the posters
because I had known him too well.

Because he was true, to me,
before he was some angel blue,
some line to be crossed,
some named to be tossed
into the oblivion of countless
martyrs who died not for your decency
but for the lack of it.

You can love him too.
But don't forget me
because I held his hair
back that summer to get
it cut with the wind cutting
through the open screen,
like a primal howl, ready
to engulf us and that beautiful
hair. But, between me and you,
the night seemed so still that
I could never think of another
night without him beside me,
just like this,
when he was mine,
I was his,
this was it.

Before he had been taken
to die, to lie publicly in the face
of some great national burden.
Putting his face to all the tears,
the fears, the leers, the jeers.
Before they had to ply him
down from Grey Street
where the onlookers all looked
out on their beloved boy who
only I had ever loved.
Privately.




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