I rambled about a boy
in a notebook
and I then gave
the notebook
to the boy
ramblings and all.
So the boy
read the notebook
and he gave it back
because he did not know
that he was whom I rambled of
and we never spoke of the notebook again.
The boy cut off
his baby hair
and we spoke of the universe’s heartbeat
and our own heartbeats
and of sadnesses
and of kisses
and of tattooed pages that adored our synapses.
I took the boy
out into the world with me
and it was the best of days
and we ran through the streets
and the boy was happy
as was I.
The boy used to tell me
the most wonderful things
and I loved the boy
but he would not say this.
But that was okay.
Then I cut off my baby hair
and soon
the boy was silent
because he believed
he had spoken to loud
so he did not speak at all.
The boys eyes were
almost black
and they used to
say that I was beautiful
as were the things I created.
I told the boy he was beautiful, too
and he would look down
(flash of long black lashes)
and for a moment there would be
a lovely absence of
lips over his teeth.
The boy’s eyes
are even blacker now
and they seem to scream
at me
and I am so sorry
and it’s irrevocably terrifying
how he
is a void of empty air
I fall through
the absence of him.
I seem to always
ruin what I try so hard
to love.