There was a boy older than myself,
he had drank himself into a great state of incoherence.
I stepped over his glistening puddle of vomit on the sidewalk.
He rolled over the crispy and cold blades of grass,
the kind that are yellow and stiff with oncoming autumn.
He bellowed and cried like a lonely kitten.
We all stood around him in a circle, as if he were a scientific display
maybe about birth, maybe about death, ashes to ashes.
He moaned for 'Miah, he slobbered as he hollered for Crazy Mike.
He did not know I was there.
We wondered if he noticed the girl,
the girl who has loved him for a long time.
She watched him writhe with us,
she made small-talk with me as we sat on frigid cement stairs.
This boy-covered in his own stomach acids and whincing pathetically-
had been too perfect to love the girl back even after all her tears.
She still wipes his lips clean, she stays awake making sure he keeps breathing.
She'll probably always carefully enunciate his name,
artfully dodging her inability to be like everyone else
so he'll at least understand her,
but he may as well be deaf,
does he even know that she can't pronounce her "r's"?
'Miah helped him limp into the bathroom, they left the light on.
The girl sat near him, wrapped in a blanket, listening to his every gasp.
She told me that she had better take her contacts out,
and I supposed that would be wise.
I bid 'Miah and Crazy Mike farewell,
and they assured me that this boy didn't usually behave in such a manner.
This night must have been something different,
I told them it was life.