He tiptoed on water’s edge, fingers delicately forcing ripples as he pressed to break the seal between air and sea. He was mysterious in his walk, his gentle speak, and his desire to blend . . . but at the same time, create.
He was a creator. A soldier in his own right. A believer, but unsure of what to believe. There was something in his dark eyes that spoke through miles of sky and earth. They called to me, and in turn, I desperately tried to speak to him. Foolishly maybe. Drawn to a boy who I knew, far down in the soul of me, was too far to grab and pull close enough to swallow.
I dug away at each woven layer. They were knit closely, boldly, and with discontent. I asked for pieces that he often wanted to give, and in the same breath stood sealed behind broken shards of a spindled past. He gave, but always one step behind. Unsure. Unforgiving in his need to walk in small hesitating movements.
There was hope in his words. To me. To the world.
There is hope in his dreams.
He stood paralyzed by opportunity, drawn in by what might be, overwhelmed by all that could happen, and guarding each of these doors with a fear that disallowed his heart to find flight and his tired bones to rest.
I offered my arm. The nape of my neck. I offered the inside of my chest for him to crawl into. I offered my guidance. My hands to hang on to. I offered my flaws, my mistakes, my brokenness to learn through.
I knew a boy . . .
He bent me backwards with his eyes, almost letting me fall. I knew a boy who saw the changing tide and froze within its motion. I knew a boy who grew three times the size of who the world thought he would be.
He was what I needed. I was what he could never figure out.
We passed in nightfall,
broke apart under the sun,
and scattered our ashes in a desert
that was always
just made for one.