This boy has never been in love. He takes his phone to bed, a ghost or a third hand, he can’t say. Can anyone, anymore, the world being what it is?
He yearns as the hours creep. Desperate to mimic the way winter wind slips through bare branches. For someone to pin him on pine needles. For morning to slap his skin.
He is a dressing gown, a softness, a swanning. An exhale of cold air in a cold living room spangled with Christmas lights spaced exactly two and a half inches apart. Manufactured to never touch.