i woke up this morning to the sound of his voice reading poetry like some dylan thomas on the balcony. a cigarette wavering in his hand, tired from scrawling his heart out on the those yearning sheets of paper. words said a thousand times before, but never quite in an order such as that. and there was no need to move, and so i didn't. just listened in that hazy half-dream half-awake glorious state of white. i looked upon him with affection. it seems i never tire of looking on his face. sometimes kissed with youth, with age, with sorrow, with rage, with worry... and always this ruddy boy making mischief still visible just beneath. but best, that smile. that burst of laughter. the wit. the cheek. the determination. the creative excitement. his thoughtful stare... a trove of treasures and past and future wrapped up in the present tense form on whom my gaze is fixed. and he tries to relax his shoulders, carrying that unnecessary weight of atlas. his arms strong, but weary from taking on more than they were ever meant for. his strength slowly unbuilt. his power demeaned. his art commercialized. and so his love waning.
yet the remnants could be heard ringing through the room. and there was something to it. something i never wish to forget. something in him i long never to regret. softly treading upon the grounds. unsure of so many things. willing for him to come away and find rest. 'it will be well' i say, i sing, i show... til he believes. or til he leaves. so wait. watching the sun cross the dial, unsure of the time we're hoping for. but hope will keep me til it comes.