I’m still looking for the traces of your existence.
Inside my head, on my bed, in the shadows.
You were there. I know you were there.
The only thing I heard from you was half a beat, lips puckering to form a word. Eyes glinting under the moonlight, your jet black hair dancing under the night.

Night.

That’s your name. To me you are night. The dark end of the day. Nothing about you is bright. Your countenance manifests deep sorrow, as painful as the number of times you allowed needles to pierce through your body. The result was beautiful: a healthy swivel of tattoos over your arm, in full color. The hues were fading now, but I wonder. Maybe at the beginning, everything was draped in one: bloody red.

I looked at you with deep curiosity. The paintings on your body silently screams of the pain you went through. Your countenance was lifeless as you silently picked up pieces of yourself, scattered like sand in the middle of the ocean. It was hard picking yourself up. But I watched you. I watched you slowly discerning fragments of yourself; wiping it with your shirt as you put it back on your broken flesh. It was a hard journey, but at that moment I saw you, I knew you were something.

The only reason I trudge alone in the dark moonlit wrecks of this place was to find you, sleeping beneath a tree or by a rock. You always found your solace in loneliness. You were always fighting everything alone.

When I first saw you, when I first saw your damaged, tattooed arms and your broken soul, I want to be that other hand who picks you up. Maybe I can’t find the parts of you you lost in the world. But I want to hold the pieces you’ve already found, and keep it safe under my warmth. I wanted to hum you a lullaby as your head lies against my shoulder.

I want you not to be alone anymore.