As I get on some bus, I think of the way He brought it up at the edge of that park. How the whole time we could swear it was going to rain. Our shadows wolves, standing there, in the dark And the way this truth without a name Would hang over us like an empty threat, Meeting us de-clawed, de-fanged, and yet Still not enough to reach some unknown goal.

I wake up one day a prophet sensing a fall. The awareness of it stings, needle-sharp. Everywhere I look, I see its signs and traces, So I do what I must and I scream it out, To the growing terror on all my friends' faces, But in the end, nothing happens. There comes no storm. Is this what I will be remembered for?

At some point the bus hits a bump in the road. The sound makes me jump, makes my head feel light, And the warning stickers all over the inside Haven't felt this yellow in my life. I say my last goodbyes to my town's bright-colored fizz And I go forward, forward, forward, Whichever way that is.

Though you have settled into your new roles, In my mind you're still that scared little man With blood under his nose and fire in his eyes And we are still there, staying up late Scheming against our parents like we have say in our lives Dreaming about having just what it takes To leave this place forever and burn down the world.

We meet every few months to feel normal for a while. Now it's all apologies, slips and falls. A gap of one year, seemingly benign, Endless explanations, missed jokes, missed calls, Guilt I cannot shake because you say it's fine, And that troubling weariness behind your smile.

What does she do when not tapping away at a keyboard in the library? What movies make her cry that she would never admit to? Does she dance in front of a mirror to songs in her head? Does she imagine little people running through the streets and fields like an obstacle course, when looking out the window of a moving train?

I wonder what personal meanings she ascribes to gestures she says are “just because”.

What she is one millisecond before someone taps her on the shoulder to ask a question. What opinions she chooses to replace with silences when someone's passionate attitude compels her to nod.

And I'm curious what she thinks, what kinds of images pass before her eyes as she falls asleep. What parts of her everyday performance dissolve into the dark when the lights go out and all that's left is white noise.

All of this fake body's cells Have twice over been replaced, Yet this back still has to bear Past ambition, past disgrace, The crushing weight of my past selves.

I went back there once again, Knocked at the cathedral's door To revive a past long gone Like I hadn't tried before, Like I wouldn't just feel pain.

Saw a face reflected in Its cold uncaring colored glass And with tingling in my skull Ran as any coward runs When he knows he will not win.

For it always starts like this. There's nostalgia so perverse In re-playing torn old tape. It is tempting to immerse Yourself in that which is not missed.

Sun and moon keep storming by And the message never sends. If it weren't for my lies, In another better life, He and I could have been friends.

Summer nights keep haunting me. A confusion unresolved. A cold glass of orange juice, Music, lights, a crowded hall, An old name, a eulogy.

There’s this classmate you have. You’ve been cautiously observing him from afar since the beginning of the school year but never quite thought to meaningfully interact. He doesn’t have friends, not stable ones anyway. He mostly hangs around the corridor at recess, phone or book in hand, cut off from everything around him.

The entire class, even your own friend group, laugh at him behind his back. He speaks in this slow, monotonous fashion, sometimes locking up in a stutter or two. He moves all clunky, as if constantly weighing every flinch of his muscles. He gets easily upset when confronted about much of anything, or worse yet, joked about. Kids being kids, this gets exploited time and time again.

His political views are extreme, painted with a broad brush and very emotionally loaded. They often get mixed in with humorous hyperbole, so you never know if he’s being serious. Every other day he says something so inappropriate to the situation you want to bury yourself underground.

And yet, you are drawn to him. There is an invisible force pushing you to get to know him, an unexplained curiosity, a sense of familiarity even. You phase into his life slowly and without promises. He’s surprisingly easy to talk to.

While in your presence, he changes from being reserved and quietly terrified to going on long detailed rambles and absolutely glowing while doing so. He laughs at your jokes, even the ones your friends scoff at. The debates you have are so silly and off the charts, but boy are they entertaining.

After a bit of this, you come to a realization. The two of you are the same. Well, maybe that's overstating it. You share a lot. Next time you go out of focus during a conversation, you hear yourself speak, your shockingly odd and rhythmic cadence. You compare the facial expressions you imagine yourself making with the real thing, and realize that your mental image of how you act is based on people you’ve seen in movies. You start noticing every time you drop something or ram head-first into a door frame, how often people joke about your weird ways of doing everyday things. And for the record, your opinions aren’t any different, just as passionate and absolutist as any kid’s, with an added taste of rage against reality.

All this time, in your struggle for survival in a demanding and hostile school environment, in laughing at that guy who sits alone, you were the same breed of kid, just very wrapped up in trying to tear yourself away from all that he represents.

Questions flood your mind. Does it show? Is the whole class laughing at you too? Is your life a lie, your way of being a persona? There is no way to know. The guy doesn’t ever mention it. He seems ashamed to think of it himself, let alone to speculate about you. Your parents assure you that you’re normal, “nothing like those unfortunate disabled kids” – you sense the disdain for the Other in their tone. Your friends make light of it, implying that even the thought of such a thing is ridiculous. You feel alone. Misunderstood. Torn.

Your normalcy is frail, you realize, it’s hanging on by a thread. It’s about as strong as your ability to say the right thing at the right time. It seems like you are constantly a word away from social suicide, and the fact that your friend group still hasn’t alienated you borders on a miracle. How safe is it to continue forward?

You have no words to describe the way in which you are different, for no one has dared to give you any. As if the lack of a word would prevent you from noticing that you stick out in the first place. But you know. You can’t un-know. Not after you’ve seen him.