The art class remained cloaked in an envelope of thought,
I sat with a tiny blade in my hand, etching away the darkness,
Trying to fend of the loneliness gnawing at the corners,
As tiny brushstrokes tugged the image closer to the surface.
The little grains of charcoal fell away from the image,
Blown across an empty table in a silent puff of air,
Wandering wordlessly into the vacant seats below.

Halfway through the semester he walked in through the door,
Lanky frame, tattered shoes, and frayed jeans.
A single glance up and the etching resumed,
Another glance up to see a chair slide out,
The charcoal dust drifted silently to the ground.

He liked alternative rock; he let me listen sometimes,
Both of us leaning across the table, sharing an experience.
Those vacant seats across the table weren’t quite as empty anymore,
Sharing each other’s company in a comfortable silence.

Eventually he told me about his childhood,
It was a Cinderella story without a happy ending.
He was locked in a musty closet for the first years of his life,
At six he was put into foster care.
He’s been to more cities than I have, but I don’t envy him,
Struggled with separation anxiety for several years.
He told me his dream was to be an artist, or a psychiatrist,
Because he knows what it feels like.

It’s an ongoing struggle for him; it probably always will be,
He confided in me that he has done things he regrets, he isn’t proud of them,
At sixteen he shouldn’t have regrets quite yet.

The other day he got expelled, it’s been a while since we’ve spoken,
From what I hear, his list of regrets has been growing,
Sometimes I wish I could shoulder some of his burdens.
He came out of the office that day, into the awaiting crowd,
We all knew what had happened, even though it remained unspoken.
On all sides were whispers and jibes, closing in on all corners,
Reminding him that he will never be one of us,
An outsider because of his past.
I stood in silence and watched him leave.

Grains of charcoal now sit undisturbed on vacant seats.