He cries the midnight. sitting atop
the roof balanced four stories above my head,
his once coffee-smudged sweater lying in his hands in
Disarray-(because what's the use if all he wants is to be faded?)
His face is pinched with youth's time or lack there of,
His distant freckles whispering about the hours we spent floors below
    [with blankets sprinkled with eyelash wishes
(he's as beautiful as the secrets he keeps coveted,
the ones I drew out of him with kisses under the plastic stars)]
 
He's as beautiful as I am oblivious :
 
He cries down the midnight
while I'm laying in my bed, hoping it won't be too long
until I'll be able to feel his palm against my cheek
Again-(because that's the only time I feel safe.)
 
His steps [austere, reverberating] are painting the cement
red. his sweater lain tarnished in threads.
I'm depeleting under the stress to stay needed,

Shaking under the weight of promise.
 
-His whole life he spent smiling and thinking of suicide
(though it's too consuming to think seriously),
because that's what every fiber of his body has always
told him to do.- (he screams down midnight)

I sit up in my bed.
The shuddering windows hint at what the plastic stars
didn't fully assemble.