Sky-shifting.

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I have always loved writing stories about boys: the boy with green eyes, the boy who loved mountain bicycles, the boy who wanted snowfall on his birthday. My mind has always been filled with boys: boys with crazy hair, boys who liked writing poems at three in the morning, sixteen year old boys, boys who never had their first loves.

Sometimes, they are fragments of every boy I have ever loved. Sure they’re as precious as glass, but they remain shattered, they are broken. They exist in multiplicity and in numbers; scattered pieces, countless nuances of thought, repetitions, semblances.

Many times, these boys are boys I imagined. Boys I wished I have met, boys I dreamed living just on the corner of the street, boys I wanted to go to concerts and record stores with. They litter like waste inside my head yet I don’t want to throw them away into forgetting. Their very occurrences are mere unhappening. But I have always loved them all the same.

And always, maybe always, these boys are odes to the boy I will always love — boys I have formed out of the shape of his nose, boys I have breathed life into with words inspired by the taste of his lips. Maybe I’ve always written these stories about boys because I was always writing about him; even the littlest bit of detail I exaggerate and turn into a character of a boy I would perpetually adore. These boys serve as tiny versions of him — the boy who smelled like rain came out from the scent of a mixture of his sweat and perfume. The boy who fell in love with the moon was him whose eyes gleam like stars, whose hair is as dark as the night sky. He was part of every story. Or maybe, he was every story.

And so I will never tire of writing about boys because I will always write about him. My words are every pulse of my paper heart. And so these boys are the very air that I breathe. And so he’s the very reason of every reason, the life of every life that I am living.