Sitting in the corner is a boy. He is very ordinary, very regular in almost every way.
Almost.
Sitting in a cell is another boy. He is broken and alone, almost gone.
Almost.
Years will pass by, as years have the habit of doing, and we will see these two boys again, this time as men.
Sitting in the corner is a man.
Sitting across from him is another.
They have a story that almost no one will believe.
…
Sitting at a classroom table are two boys. One is still ordinary in almost every way.
Almost.
Next to him sits another boy, who almost succeeds in ignoring his companion as a teacher rambles on and on.
Almost.
They still have a story no one will believe, but it is still unwritten.
…
Hiding in the corner is a boy, trying to block out the rages from downstairs as a man screams the name of a long gone woman. And he almost succeeds.
Almost.
Sitting in the park is a boy, a pack of gum held loosely in his hand. He hears the shouts from the house and he tries not to think of the boy. And he almost succeeds.
Almost.
…
Crying in his room is a boy, crying to God for someone that will love him. And he's hoping and hoping that God really hears, because he wants to know what love really is.
Sitting in a tree outside the window is a boy, listening to the other boy's sobs. He tentatively reaches out, wanting to knock. He gets within inches and almost taps on the glass.
Almost.
…
Sitting in a squad car is a man, yelling at the blue suited officers to let him out; his son deserved what he got; let him go; get his son out of the house. And the boy almost comes outside.
Almost.
…
Standing in the doorway of a foster home is a boy. He clutches his small bag of possessions close to his chest and stares at the floor as the woman kindly says "Riku will show you around." And he almost doesn't follow the boy.
Almost.
…
Sitting on a moth eaten, foster home couch are two boys watching TV. One stares at the screen, seeing but not seeing. The other looks at him from the corner of his eye and puts a hand on his shoulder. And the boy almost flinches away.
Almost.
…
Sitting in a police station is a boy, watching his shoes with vast interest. His best friend is being taken away, and as the other boy is escorted past, he almost doesn't cry out.
Almost.
…
Sitting in a corner is a boy. He has just lost his best friend and is trying to seal out the world. And he almost succeeds.
Almost.
Sitting in a cell is another boy, regretting every decision he's made. He look up and cries out to God, whispering for someone who will love him for him.
…
Sitting in a car is a boy, the kid with a story that no one believes. He looks out the window and tries to see hope, but he knows that his other is gone. He almost looks away and lets it go.
Almost.
Watching the car from the park is a boy, a kid with a hope that he's been clinging to. He rubs at the scars down his arm, the gift of a father who abandoned hope. And he looks at the dirt and he looks at the car, then he stands and he almost walks over.
Almost.
…
Sitting in the park is a boy, now a young man, watching the children play around the trees; he hums a long forgotten love song, rubbing at faded scars down his arm. And when he hears a crack and a snap and a swear, he almost just doesn't turn around.
Almost.
Standing in the brush is a boy, now a young man, memories from bad places swimming in his eyes. He sits next to his long forgotten friend, murmuring apologies that no one has to hear. And soon they're both crying and holding on tighter than needed, but they don't see the need to let go.
…
Sitting in the corner of the room is a young man. He's drunk and he's tired, but he can't forget. Sitting across on the floor is a young man, the man whom he loves, but who remains just a friend.
And the friend on the floor reaches out with a hand marred by scars. He almost doesn't pull the man into an embrace and they almost don't stay there all night.
Almost.
…
Sitting in church is a man who doesn't believe in God, but he stays there because another is watching with beloved blue eyes. And he sighs and he watches the preacher man preach and he clings to a hand marred by scars.
And they almost don't embrace outside of that church, under the tree turning red with the fall.
…
Up in the sky is a bright wishing star, which they look on each night and hope for the best. They smile and think of something left unsaid, but each always knows what the other hopes for.
Rubbing at faded, old scars is a man, who has almost forgotten the abuse of the past.
Almost.
…
Crying on the couch is a boy, not a man, clinging to someone who he knows understands. It'd be easy to forget, but he can't, and the other just smiles and says "I know."
Neither know why, but they no longer want to cry. And they almost forget to thank God for remembering their prayers.
Almost.
…
Sitting in a home are two boys who are now complete.
There is no almost.