The gauzy curtains shine with golden light as the sun dances through our silhouettes,
but it never quite reaches his face.
His arms are crossed tightly into
an oversized coat with greasy stains,
his sharp chin juts forward – he is all
sharp angles and clean lines.
Dark red circles adorn his eyes, remnants
of salt and water
unleashed with the pounding of fists,
that drench the thick blanket of night
until it is too soggy to stay in the sky.
His eyes are dry as he glares,
two sharp flints of obsidian, hidden under
a choppy fringe of stringy hair.
Crumpled on the floor, his crackled
lips move,
but no sound comes out.