you meet at a baseball game where
you're both playing for the same team.
at least that much hasn't changed. somehow
you both found yourselves at the same field.
you were both taller, broader, older. you thought
he had forgotten it, but he was the first to bring
it up. "i remember that" he said and laughed.
your heart hurt.

you love him. more than you wanted to
more than you knew you could. you have
more love in your body and soul than your
father said would be possible. you wake up
one day and realize this like a smack in the
face or a bucket of cold water and it scares you.
for once you are glad to be alive.

he hasn't moved in days. hasn't so much
as shifted or rolled over. his sister throws
around words like "bipolar" and "suicidal"
but you were never good in english. you have
street smarts, you know people. you know he's still
breathing and sleeping and he never acknowledges
you but the back of his neck peaking out of the covers
makes you feel fond. his name is a whole two syllables
and you find yourself treasuring it
like a prayer.

so you say it out loud to wash away the sins
from your skin like the grime you are covered in
like the tattoos on your knuckles. you whisper it
to him in your bed your shared bed and run your fingers
through his hair because you can now.

you tell him it's going to be okay
say "you're not your mother"
say "we're not our parents"
say "we'll get out of this place"
when you both know you only half
mean it. you haven't seen his smile
for weeks and you keep forgetting you're
both still kids but you love him and you
say his name when you can't fall asleep
and you hope that that's enough.