Boys and Eyes

There's three small cracks above my head.

The kind of thing I only see because I spend so much time in bed.

I'd like to think I'm observant but the truth is after so long in the same place it's hard to miss the details.

Monkeys and typewriters.

Boys and eyes.

Wandering eyes with the weight of a world in each socket.

I find them falling downward in a desperate attempt to avoid the gaze of passers-by. When I find the will to step outside.

Boys and eyes.

The kind of eyes that sleep on bags.

Crushed under the weight of a furrowed brow. Unable to move. So they dig down.

These eyes don't look back.

Accustomed to looking away.

Searching for nothing to say.

Staying inside.

Lying in wait.

And looking at the wall.

For another long day.

There's three cracks above my head and sometimes I dream that they swallow me whole.

A boy.

And his eyes.

From his bed.