(lost names)

His soul is visible,
like glass or mirrors
etched into the creases of his face
He smells like winter and
the casual brush of a hand -
his eyes, however concrete grey
behind black frames of glass
hold a warmness just as with cold
hands he demonstrates a warm heart

He has lost his name,
abandoned it against his will
only to be called another

He makes even ugly death
seem beautiful

He watched me once
bleed the moon through my eyes
and then again,
and he asked me, with a sigh
that mirrored mine,
"Tired?"