Knuckles

You could see it in his eyes–a gentleness–
and when he looked, he stared holes through you.
Like there was nowhere to run or hide from who you are–
just sitting back in awkwardness to work this one through.
You don’t even know why you feel a compelling
to snatch him from a liquid fire.
Let’s be real. That’s not completely true,
and to claim anything else, you’d just be a liar.
There’s a humility and thirst for life, unquenchable,
where he found himself, dancing with trains.
He inscribed each moment on his flesh and bone–
a trail-blazing map to a life unrestrained.
Something about him announces true freedom–
the thing you’ve always loved about yourself.
But you’ve been so busy chasing social stratification
that somewhere you’ve turned into something else.
The truth in his eyes are a lamp post–
even when he himself has come undone.
His knuckles pave the way to that attestation:
don’t let the fire die, “Hold on.”

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