to the boy with the angry eyebrows,

i’m sorry that no one ever took the time to paint you
while you were basking in the perfect morning sun
cause if i had a brush i would have traced every chiseled line
shaded the deepest shadows even the ones
behind your eyes; i never would have let your colors fade or
allowed you to be forgotten next to something newer
more vivid more alive
because i still remember what it was like to be dead with no
one to paint no colorshow no fireworks no explosions inside
placed on a wall and hung observed watched because you are special
so tragically special and beautiful and some nights
i stay awake until dawn and wonder where you’ve gone since our
months beneath the fireflies and if
“who you become is who you really are” and if you could paint,
if maybe you ever would paint me and if so how would i look?
and i can only hope that in your memory
i dance across the page
in shades of purple and green and i still have my long
hair, just the way you liked it and i would be sitting cross-legged on that old bench, head back and eyes laughing with the stars.