this is a story about him.
this is a story with a happy ending.
he was the first boy i ever loved.
in the fall, we would go down the boardwalk
and under the grey-skies, we endlessly chattered about the fishermen and weather.
we'd run away every week to coney island
just to see the carousel lights burning strong against the dark canvas of night.
and in the winter, when the rides were shut down and the only company we had were pigeons,
he'd sing to me and i would smile.
soon the snow melted,
and we sat on rooftops, sharing boxes and boxes of popsicles,
tanning in the rain.
i'd put on my red boots and yellow coat and he'd put me on his shoulders.
we rode the subway all afternoon with the businessmen, delivery boys, and old ladies
until night when the homeless and workaholics came.
we got off at 5th and 47th.
it would pour down hard and cars would move maybe 2 or 3 inches for every
2 or 3 feet we walked.
people rushed to get home, to meetings.
but we took our time.
7 blocks later, we stole a bicycle;
i peddled and he rode on the handlebars.
through the puddles, traffic, and bustling people.
passing cars and streetsigns.
we felt alive.
and then the summer came.
the tourists were back and the rides were running.
but the air was warm, tightly prickling our skin.
the unflattering sun outlined little patterns of cuts and bruises
on his paling face.
june was unkind.
july - worse.
we snuck into movie theaters for the air conditioning,
and stayed for the entertainment.
we mimicked and made fun of romantic comedies,
snickered at dramatic tragedies
and sat through horrible new-age horror flicks.
we lived like bohemians.
like two lovers in a foreign art film.
until his dad shot him through the head.
i told you it had a happy ending.