poem: what do i call this

I guess I don’t need to talk to him because I already know

everything he would say. I know

when he would roll his eyes, and that I would laugh;

and I remember the few times I was charming enough

to make him laugh; he threw back his head,

all of his pretention going up in smoke, just a boy,

sitting on my bed and looking over at me,

hope in the awkwardness.

And I can see it too:

the way he will tell me

that he’s waiting for me

and the brilliant way the snow would whisp

onto his gloves, the fabric almost soft

as he touches my cheeks.

 

I’ll lie to myself

and pretend I’m happy with watching him walk past me,

his intelligence all lost in his headphones

and the fake and the real getting blurrier and blurrier

behind my fading hands; I go back to

nothing, and he keeps on Living.