Dare I look past unforetold boundaries
Upon breaking each bone along thy spine
Breaking will and long made alliances
To catch but a glimpse of the shadow beside me
Obscured, blurred by the heaping curls of hair have I
Questions fly in my head
Their echoes resounding in the walls of my mind
Questions as to why?
For who would bear the agony of being a breath away
Standing, that cannot be, sitting merely efforting
A nightmare long birthed into this world
As heavy as the book bags that he shoulders
As pleasant as the words that he slurs
I am who I am, and, he is, who he is
Yet upon this day, he bears no name like his own
No face that point and juts with pride
In the simplicity of taking a seat, has changed so much
My mind gears and spins into accusations
Hurtling words of actions, at his seemingly innocent figure
Why here? Why here, I ask myself
And berating my eyes from journeying into the unwelcome
Attempting, failing to be caught
I observe him,
His hair falling softly, stealing its warmth from artic seas
Angelic lightness illuminate his framing features
Gather light dust and rays of sun
So perfect, so tranquil, so peaceful his display tells on
But lies and masks, unfooling to those who know
For behind that curtain, is not an angel dancing,
It is a blackness that envelops, an evil attraction
Remove all premises and outer layering
A pair of solemn eyes greet your entrance
Solemnity in the steely blue
That inherits the warmth of heavy clothes,
The rumble of a storm, and the blue of the sky in a distant setting sun
His brow meet in focused manners
Cracked and rough not his skin but in pattern
Almost agonizing in frustration, I smile
But soon does it fade, as realization hit me
A sole intellectual challenge
Its standing opponent, the same as the last
He has beat himself again and victory comes in a smoothened form
All worry escapes in wisps of soul
Exiting parted lips, so perfectly pursedly red
The grace he exudes in just the way he sits
With slumped shoulders and slouching back
He is tall, superior in just his being
His clothes wrinkled, old, worn are finely pressed and elegant
The richness of texture, softness of silks unforeseen by keen eyes
And still he sits, oblivious to my analysis
My steady gaze of examination
And with his bare hands he grasps his tool
In the emptiness of the walls within
Now fills the sound of inky tips meeting parchment
So furiously I watch it go
Its feather whips and jets in a frenzy
Speeding bullets and creating wind
As to what he writes so tersely puzzles my thought
A patterned beat, I envision the script
Elegant, neat with a flair of the wrist
Aristocratic and urgent as always
A wonder he is, a specimen to look under
He has given me a pause
Almost as if to say it was a measured quantity
As time is by the clock and as passion as to the heart
In hope indifference would only spurn in my heart
But in the soft distance, that is of thin air
I am at peace with him,
Though he is not with me
