My friend said you looked like a fucking twelve-year old.
Why bother? I said some people don’t age
because they are not ready. Some have good genes.
Some wait for the one chance they think they deserve.
I saw the man behind your young features,
when you looked up at the sun, squeezed your eyes, and smiled.
He was hiding in cold movie parlors, behind earphones
and apps, your even face the door bolt of his fortress.
I saw a man wanting to love and live in freedom
the everyday fancy of New York City,
or travel to unknown Caribbean beaches.
I sat behind closed blinds with him for too long.
I hoped I was the chance you thought you deserved,
the love for whom you would leave your ageless solitude.