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Sep 3
I read from my seventh gay YA novel of the year as the central line whirls by my skull
scraping away the buried sensations
looking across the pockmarked platform
to year 8
the boy who I kissed in secret in the changing rooms
suddenly looked like death on the school pitch
since the passes were now higher harder and tackles less friendly
without words exchanging I think maybe then he knew our practice wasn’t something we could repeat
that the risk of pretending to be as much of lover a boy can was too adult too real for lunchtime escapes
maybe then my feet knew his retreating frame in the summer heat was an unconscious betrayal           my heart failing to reach out and soothe his agony when the metal studs flirted with his skin
and he’s looking up at me like a salve like some sort of safe haven leaving him on the astroturf to bleed alone
and in that moment
I reach out across the lines to try to smooth out his face and tell him he will stand
and his smile will make the pain yield
and his hands will hold another boy
and will not be left alone
I pull my hand back to let him rest at last
and the train pulls in.
Oskar Erikson
Written by
Oskar Erikson  20/M/London
(20/M/London)   
237
 
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