Soft grey feeling



light, painful light

threatening to burst

against my ribs.


The trapped boy

has picked the lock

and stretches

against the sun.

The wicked sun,

your wicked son

is rising,


against my fingertips

is me.

Boyish fingertips

placing cold


on cold glass.

Let us open up

this window,

reaching out,

reach in.

For now

I don’t want

to go through the world,

but for the world

to go through me.

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