when a boys dies he lives a few scattered moments longer per person who knew him. he dies, and yet he is still alive, as the words leave another’s mouth “he’s gone.” he’s still alive with blood and bones and spirit there. every piece is still where it belongs.

the words travel from mouth to brain and it’s there, in the language, that he dies. and it’s no one’s fault - he is gone, he is dead. but from then on his life is limited to the sculpture the people he knew are capable of creating. so people remember him on and on, he was tall, he was kind and smart. they frame the same photograph over and over.

people are afraid of the bad, the spear he ran past as a kid and screamed as it tore his thigh open, that shrill of his voice, the day he dented the wall with a mere elbow's tap, the pieces that made him more than a thoughtful still life. his life is more accurately described as a vignette of horror and beauty.

yet those who survive him meet someone new in his passing - they meet the flawless portrait of a boy, who was only a boy, a beautiful boy.