He watches the world, cuts it out of your old observations folds it in half, and puts it back.
He wants to be remembered, wants to leave his footprints on the ground and his voice in your head.
(But I watch the boy burn away his fingertips.)
He knows what he wants; you he says when you're not listening and his throat is sore from holding it in
He tries to understand how wanting something down to the souls of your feet doesn't bring ever afters.
So he lives with dissatisfaction on his tongue and traces of desperation in the tips of his hair.
He's just so enigmatic like that, they say when he's looking through the mirror, his fingers touch the glass but there is no alternate reality. His hands hit hard against abrupt comprehension
Try again later cold and scathing, says the magic eight ball staring back.
I watch him, sometimes as he stares at you, when you're never really looking.
His hands crumple the ends of his shirt and his fingers trace the outlines of defeat and loose seams.
He cups his hands and carries your heartbreak,
Bites his lip to stop the words from tumbling out.
A/n I can't explain him, put him down on paper, write out his life with the words in my head.
my fingers itch to put him back together and i have absolutely no idea what to think of this