his hair does not sway gently, moving like threads in the
comforting currents.
his skin is not moist and ashen like porcelain.
his hands do not grasp the sand and grit, fingers running
through grains like time.
his eyes are not shining nor limpid, soul concealed
underneath them.
his voice is not smooth when he sings,
laughs and cries alike trapped in the unlit murkiness.
laughs and cries alike trapped in the unlit murkiness.
rather, he lays there, still as silence, among the forgotten.
a glassy gaze forever trying to see past the surface.
the sun illuminates his face.
he floats his words to the surface in a million bubbles,
waiting for someone to catch them.
he melts into water, form dissipating,
remnants of him buried.
he is waiting for me.
