his crown is nothing more
than a head of messy brown hair he obsesses over
and his throne is just a desk that is always right next to my own
or the driver's seat of a silver honda civic, depending on the time of day
i twist words for him in every single waking moment
with pen in the margins of my philosophy notebook,
with the little voice in my head in the crevices of my mind,
and with my fingers on all my favorite spots of his skin.
i stand at his side, day by day,
simply observing, taking note, remembering the words and the gestures and the glances
so that future generations will recall the story
of his gloriously troubled beginnings
this king, this boy that you all write off as a pretender,
a usurper
he does rule
one kingdom
one tiny, minuscule, banal, five-foot-tall-redheaded kingdom
me
and one day my king will rise
he will rise, he will conquer, and we will be victorious
he will lead this kingdom that adores him so
and i will follow him into the war
that will either break us or entwine us
because i know that his majesty won't let
his kingdom fall