he told me the candlelight was a firefly
By: ShinigamiForever

A/N: So, let's keep expanding on past poems. Written for a boy in my second collection of five poems, no 1., I think. Could be a love poem, but the nature is not.

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He tries too hard.
Or maybe the problem is,
he isn't trying hard enough.

Yes. That could be it.

But let us instead look at him. He is small,
but not really small. A feeling of smallness,
(not words, but words, but syllables?)
like a whiff of rain
in the autumn air.
So searching?
But perhaps he instead is the one who is found.

No matter. I can pretend, in the way I always do,
that he believes what I want him to believe.
I think,
(but then again, that is all I ever do)
his subconciousness dreams and ponders
over weighty lucid beauties
that we are all aware of.
But his glasses, in reality, shield his eyes
from the blatant light
that pierces the rest. What mercy? Ah-
but those same glasses
keep him from seeing what is so obvious
so easy to assume.

Forget reasons, for a minute. Let us continue looking at him.
I go back, to his skinny slender form.
Like a willow tree in some distress, bending to the wind.
We assume, like we do anyway,
that he does not break. Because
you see
No one wants to see his soul splinter like so many wooden chips.
The background music is of a cello
an echo of someone I knew, he knew, we all knew.
Well,
forgetfullness is a common disease. But he is pure,
shielded
quarantined?
I wish to keep him that way.

Perhaps I am wrong. I have been wrong before,
it is something that has happened.
A chronicle of innocence and small petals
like him
has been lost before. And found, but lost first.
Another, like the other him, has taken the ink of night
and drawn words of drowning love on sidewalks.
It has happened.
Then why?

Mentioned, once before, powder blue like sky.
That is why. He, in freshly ground cerulean water.
A tribute written for him in piano.
Even if the cello is playing.
For his glasses speckled with the clouds he watches.
Nodding his head to music.

Ah! I digress.
But, with him, one is always discursive.
Running away with his foxtail light.
I think one of these days the other him
will take this one and wrap tender tangerine kisses on bare skin.

But that could just be me.

He, in twilight blue.
And he, in dawnlit white.

A/N: Weirder than normal, or just me? Reviews please!