I met a boy once
on a screen, in a beautiful paragraph
He said he only wrote fiction
with a hint of his past.
that he didn’t care about rhythm
or the stuff between the lines
Knowing him was reading a book
he had written anonymously
The kind to re read once every few months
to find something new
Naturally, I told him the story
I never admitted to have
He listened with his eyes
never shifting his glance.
He has seen the parts of me
I am ashamed to hide
never once flinching from their
ugly sight.
I met a boy once
in a dream, in morning daylight
he was writing, I was reading
a play with strange characters
but one.