He gazes out the window, thinking of his man
The one who left with kisses and bruises;
The one who stole his everything
Before selling it all out
For fear, for acceptance, for a little slice of 'normal',
That our window gazer cannot understand.
He watches as the palm trees sway,
Whispering their secrets to the wind
And he wonders if they know his secret:
That he would still walk into Hell,
For the man who'd pawned his soul.
"He isn't worth you," they try to tell him,
The palms that bend, but never break That are thrashing wildly in the storm outside,
The one that seems to mimic what's within him.
But, he cannot listen, our boy
Because he is deaf to all but his lover's voice.
"This isn't right," the man had said,
After years of showing different.
"I see truth," the man had said,
Using phrases that dripped with lies.
"There is no truth," our boy thinks now,
But at the time, he'd been silent,
Struck dumb, his voice as dead as the rest of him.
He gazes out the window, thinking of his man,
The one who still owns him whole, but not the one who'd sold his being.