The moment I see him
I make up the story of his life,
and the fire that almost swallowed him
in a childhood accident but spat him out
at the last possible second
comes sweeping in from the past
to heat the very air around us.
There’s a girl in line behind him,
and she stares at his scars
with wide eyes,
taking in every brush of imperfection,
every blemish, every fault.
He knows he’s being looked at;
he stares ahead with the blank expertise
of someone who’s been an object
of fascination for years.
I watch on, the perpetual watcher,
as he falls under the gaze of the young girl
whose skin I would not call clear,