The human boy as a rushing machine
I watched him breathe into his sleeves to cover his hand in condensation 'til they turned clammy and unhappy, the frigid things he let slender through the years. Where are you now if you can't clutch a woman's hand and hold on for dear life. When they're soaked, she slips away - quiet whispers & apologetic twist backward for a last glance. What do men dream of when somber, when the sun can't even warm a black thread and the fur cast wind away from their faces? Do they beg for milk with their eyes, is there another way to make their legs work aside from running so many miles opposite in fright. A freight train made of tendons, vessels, bone - with a heart and brain intent on nestling itself a home within a woman's crook, elbow valley - lashes bat, squint, and lips curl to comfort as the smoke pours out his smokestack throat. Yes, I imagine men as feathered locomotives when they brood. Sobbing 'Choo's and shoving their steel faces into the ruffle of discontent neck stubble. They find love while sleepwalking themselves into doors.
I will save you.