forged under fire, / like a sword delivered from stone, / you grew from the corpse of a rabbit / into the body of a man with / a kind of broadness to your shoulders, / a kind of depth to your voice. / chainmail heavy, / you did your fair share of jousting matches riding on the backs of horses / and so they did not question you, / when you spent your time in the apothecary, / dawdling amongst the potions and tinctures, / your eyes loitering on his, / crying at the sight of a man set to burn at the stake. / I see you in him / and me in you. / I write about you all the time, you know? / it’s probably because I write about him / all the time, too. / even if I knew you only briefly, / you stay with me. / I cannot leave your side / for something like concern or care, / for wanting to be there when it happens / (if it happens), / to help you rise out of the water, / to navigate the mountains / and the landscape / of a new land, of a new time. / sometimes I forget you were just a boy once, / that there was once a time / when your head did not bear the crown, / when your shoulders did not bear the valley’s burdens. / I’m sorry for it. / It’s much to carry. / I wonder often if I could travel back in time, / if I were more honest, / if I had asked the question that simmered beneath the surface of every conversation we ever had, / maybe you would have been braver. / I was always under the impression the world made you the way that you are, / that you cowered / at the half-sprung words of boys / being boys in their crudeness / and unmatched ability to be unkind, / that it would be the greatest failure / to disappoint your father / even though he was never looking in your direction anyways. / and I wonder now if you sewed it into yourself, / that no one ever cared how you turned out to be, / that your mother was going to let you be exactly who you are and she would still hug you, beaming up at you with tender eyes of pride. / and yet you stuffed the feeling so deep inside you, it never breathes anymore. / perhaps, it’s dwindled down there with lack of oxygen. / perhaps it will go with you / to the grave.
