there are far too many holes in my shirt
he tells me, winking
he asks me if I'm cold
Would I like his jumper?
No, it's far too small.
He's far too happy
when he sits here
talking with me
and I am far too at ease.
He tells me about his dreams and plans
he talks about video games, how he stans
for skrillex, and all that dubstep stuff
and I can't even listen to it now.
He tells me his home life,
and how he was scared
He tells me about brothers
and possible sisters
He asks me how I am,
and I tell him the truth
he hangs an arm round my shoulder
he is far too comfortable with
comforting me.
But only when no one else is here
but see, now I'm embellishing
because I am not talking to him
I'm talking about him
to myself.
I'm not yet comfortable with comforting myself
and there are far too many holes in this shirt
and the story.