i am standing in the bathroom and i can hear his voice, soft and gentle from next door.
he is standing before the mirror, adjusting his hat, dusting off his shoulder pads with slim, pale fingers.
and i can't quite hear what he's saying; he likes to talk to himself and pretend his words are directed at me.
maybe this makes him feel better in some way.
but i do not mind.
so i am standing in the bathroom, and i am smoothing my hair down with a small, brown comb. and i am listening to his sweet, youthful voice, and i am home.
when i pass through the doorway and stand there, watching him with stars in my eyes, i notice how the sun streams through the window on the ceiling, and he looks ethereal; a dream. i want to reach out and touch him but i know he is not mine and never will be, so as always i watch from a distance;
close enough to admire his beauty, far enough to avoid breaking my own heart.
title taken from [i saw his round mouth's crimson]
YOU ARE READING
In Different Skies
PoetryAnd in his eyes The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak In different skies [the titles of the chapters are taken from Owen's poems and i do not own them. some sections aren't poetry and some are written in verse. i write these completely off t...