We lived next door to a boy.
But he was not—not quite.
His eyes were frozen to the sky,
glazed in distant prayer,
his hands knotted in mythical pleas.
He looked lost,
searching heaven’s vault,
his mouth gaping with questions that have no answers.

I felt his face,
ran my thumb across the dried saliva on his chin.
His eyelids fluttered, possessed by
finality and guilt.
He knew what he had deprived, and he was just a boy.
He is my struggle.
He is my mama’s whispered gratitude.
He is the face of the wonderfully devoid path,
the reminder of how quickly it can change,
and he was just a boy.