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He wasnt your normal blue eyes
Blond haired boy.
He wasnt the type
That girls normally chased after.

His two inch hair,
Often times stuck up
In all different directions
Due to him not wanting to brush it
In attempt to see
If it would afro out.

Sometimes he would walk by
A big smile stretched across his face
His pale blue eyes
Twinkling of happiness
And he would pat his hair
Telling me
That he “still hadnt brushed it yet”

The look of such proudness
Never failed
To bring a smile
To my face.



During work
He would make
Giant wads of rubber gloves
And draw faces on them
Just so he could show me.
Telling me
How he was going to take it home
And save it forever
Tell he had grandchildren
To pass it down to,
Only so that I can bend down
And laugh
Tell tears streamed down the sides of my face.

Sometimes,
Our boss
Would find us in the back
And he would be telling me
How he was going to be
A famous movie producer
And make movies that are so great
That “Even Steven Stillberge
Will be kissing his Butt”

Sometimes,
He would see me in the lunch room
Sitting by my self
And he would come over
And talk to me
Telling me about his latest comic book
Adventure,
And how he plans to spend what he has left
On the latest issue coming out
And how ever so often
His loving grandma
Would bring him stacks and stacks of comics
Just for him
That she had hunted down at some yard sale,
And he would tell me
Of how
He would read
Every single one of them over
Even though he already owned most of the issues
Just so
That when his grandma asked
If he enjoyed the comics she got him
He could say yes.



Sometimes,
We would sit in the lunch room
And he would tell me
Of how
He would get so mad at himself
For messing up over some things
That he would have to pour salt
Over his arm
And hold an ice cube over it
Tell it melted completely
To burn away the pain.

He would tell me
Of the times
The horrible voice in his head
Would taunt him over and over
All day long
Tell he gave in
Doing whatever it told him to do,
Showing me the scars on his hand
From the knife
That he was forced to cut himself with,
In attempt
To quiet the voice.

Some times
He wouldn’t show up to work
At all.
And my boss would call his house
Over and over
Only to get the answering machine.

Sometimes I wonder
If maybe I had tried harder
To be there for him
He would still be here
To tell me his crazy movie ideas
And show me his new faces on his
Rubber gloves.
To make me laugh
Over his new jokes
And make me cry
Over his sad stories of pain.

I wonder
If he would be here in front of me
Telling me
To smile more often
And not let so much weight me down.
To show me his crazy hair,
And horrible comic drawings
I wonder,
If I will always miss him this much,
And wish,
That I could see him
Just once,
To tell him
How I really felt about him.

Sometimes I wonder,
If he really loved me too?

And sometimes,
I wonder,
If he knew,
That I would hate him this much
For leaving the world,

And leaving me.