I see his hands glide down the scars along the lingering muses That encourage him to keep going Now down upon a white shirt, his muscles like a trained beaten horse Thunderbolts brew in the wedged glass upon the shelf As the storm picks up outside The trees cry and wind back their branches But it seems too quiet inside In his boulder bruised eye, wishing to be the man everyone wants him to be Except for me He presses firm into his sides, covering his pain underneath his sharpened collar Not letting anyone inside, deceiving them that everything’s fine Even in the eyes of his buttons, he lies He moves in silence, and folds the covers of his bedside All the corners straight and neat His slick hands weigh down into the soft comfort of this world He bows his head, locks eyes with mine and everything seems to change His world of his secrets, lies, and pain subside
As his crooked smile, the dent in his nose rises high As the storms pass in his eyes, now like crystal snow He gives me a rarity smile, opening the paled thinned gates
And in the darkness, it’s so bright and bold As I hold him, fingers into his heated face I find that after all this time, Underneath the hemming and stitches of white I can truly see what’s inside
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