Maybe because he woke up one morning, older than he ever thought he'd be. Like a poet with a heart of glass, his time machine too stubborn to go back. And there I was, with all the words that could make it easier to forget.

Empty attics advertising for ghosts. Dark cellars tying to hang on to their shadows. It’s not so hard to find friends, the difficulty lies in wanting them. Dominoes not toppling; throwing away the masks. The future in its fancy clothes thinking I care how it’s dressed.

Maybe it’s my fatal flaw, to think everyone must love me. Just because I love them. Feelings like umbrellas, only it’s not raining. A scarecrow in the desert, waiting for something to grow. Every step forward should equal all the ones taken back. But I know it doesn’t work that way. Potential with no ambition. Straw houses believing they are made of bricks.

I guess it doesn’t matter who he is when he’s not here. Because I’m not there.