Found: a Stranger in a Friend

His spine curves over in an exaggerated arch. He is stretching for something. That something might as well be tucked somewhere in the texts of last nights trigonometry homework for that he is right now. Man he is smart. His head bends low, nose touching paper and his back rises like a cats.

His smooth liquid flowing shirt uncovers each vertebra. It is as if acid has run down his spine and eaten away every so often. Pools of sorrow and depression gather in the recesses. I would cry if it meant he’d show some happiness.

His eyes are livid with thirst. They roll in dark shadows. He’s stayed up late for the extra fulfillment of knowledge. Now, his tired body sags in a walking sleep, the arch of his back is restful.

I think he has abandoned himself. I do not know when the last time he brushed his hair was. I hope he doesn’t care that I noticed. Normally, he’ll just shrug off those things. His arched back will heave a sigh, shoulders will rise, and he will speak out of the side of his mouth in a nasally voice, “Oh well.” or “That’s okay.” He speaks simply, but I can’t figure him out. When he walks, his head is content with looking forward and his back is happy being straight. I envy his sub-confidence.

I say sub because I know when he sits he recoils into his mind where it is a less than happy place to be. It’s one of the only places he finds acceptance. It troubles him. On the inside, I know he chuckles at the world, but he can’t bring himself to do so out loud. I wish he would just laugh, because I know the world would take that chortle and smile upon it. All he needs is a smile. Maybe then, happiness can begin to fill the depressions in the arch of his back and his hair will untangle into brown curls. His eyes will fill in fuller the recesses of his waxed cheeks. The mumble that escapes past his skinny fingers resting up his chin may grow loud.

I want him to eat more out of life. He is terribly skinny. It’s unusual; I thought a master secret keeper would be fat and able to hide evils in the folds of his skin. Instead, this man is skinny. But this boy, riddle by enough tricks to be a man, hides his muffled thoughts between bona and the faint ripple of muscle. I suspect those evils also home in the mess of his hair. It takes two hands to reach up and brush it from his eyes. I hope he never cuts it. He’d have no where to hide behind. If he cuts his hair, I’ll see everything. I’ll see his neck. I don’t want to see that spine creep up off his back; it will mean he is no longer hiding and that I can no longer look.