the Goodfellow

"Give me your hands, if we be friends..."


he can't understand what it is about him that doesn't work.
he would tear out the problem with his bare hands if only he knew where to look.

by his tight smile we are, none of us, fooled.
though the blue eyes laugh and the curls ache for the touch of our various fingertips,
we know.

he is a mirage. a ghost of the man he should be.
but, who are we to say?
who cannot help but love the troubled soul?

he is the fevered brow being wiped.
he is the motorcycle king waving goodbye.
he is the last of the lost boys who always leaves behind one kiss.

and though his pain leaves him too weak to move,
though he bleeds for what he does not know,
let us turn a blind eye.

let us enjoy the show.