He’s 22 and still under the bed, playing
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Only now he calls it being a Goth.
He hides from the sun.
And the more he hides,
The more he fears the day.
“Night is beautiful and deep,” he tells me.
“Yes…. yes, it is,” I reply
As I kick my broad white skirt.
(I like the way it flows against my skin
And how pale its movements are in the moonlight.)
“But the night cannot be beautiful without the day.”
He says nothing. I know he is afraid.
Blackness hides his emptiness,
His empty depression,
His euphoric nothingness.
He passes his silence to me
And I will carry it with me into the day.