his after-wash-grey-pineapple-socks dance on

white, squeaky, linoleum and he throws

his head into his neck

and screams like he never before did.

through his inner eye he can see

that glass is breaking

where he isn't present.

always,

he feels out of place.

even if there lingers

a ghostly hand

on top of his shoulder.

always,

he feels alone.

even when

his bare feet meet his

under the baby-blue blanket.

always,

he feels tired.

even when

he manages to sleep

for five hours because

he had a fever.

always,

he longs to

fall,

in love,

though he knows it's to no use

simply because

he craves

to feel,

anything,

even if

it is nothing at all.

and for that reason

he shook darkness' hand

to camp out by the fire with it,

to be eaten by the moths

that were attracted by

the light

on his throat.