He shrugs that the only difference is happiness.
Marked by a foam topping of calm
on the surface of everything he was already
He’s still there, he says.
With a smile from soul to sole and a verse he hums
absently, he says that the revisions please him.
And sure, his low is lower than before
but his high is higher too.
Isn’t that what love does?
I do not know how to tell him
That he says the same words
does the same things
but he moves just a fraction differently.
Like he’s itching for a fix.
And nothing and no one else
can alleviate, gratify, or pacify
the thirst pulsing in his pores
And I don’t know how to scream
at his happiness
that the problem with new boys is
they can do no wrong in his eyes
to his body to his heart
and so he doesn’t even know it’s happened
until they’re lost boys gone boys far boys
and he’s cleaning up scrapes
and washing off dirt
they didn’t just leave on his skin.
He thinks this feeling is happiness
but there’s a grimace across gaunt cheeks
and he says he doesn’t feel quite well.