"Are you coming tonight?"
He would bake cakes without recipes, he would get lost for hours on Wikipedia, keep fancy books in his bookcase just in case someone was watching and he would make soap that reminded me of the ocean. He was a boy who's phone remained silent on his birthday, he was a boy who's voice broke a bit when he told me that his father sent an empty birthday card to celebrate the day.
"At least I can reuse it and sent it to someone else."
His surface was hard and shiny, but his hands gentle. He would take my face between his large hands and smile at me and pull me close:
"You say the most amazing things, Nina."
He was a boy who would stand on the doorstep of his house and silently watch me walk down the street to catch the bus:
"Baby, do you have enough money for the fare?"
(His hand remained lifted like a picture frozen in time, after blowing me a kiss).
He was a boy I could have loved if he would have let me. A boy that made different variations of peach cake simply because I adore peaches. A boy lost. A boy down. A Peter Pan who would not grow up because it hurt too much.
He remains on stage. He remains alone. He remains as he is. In torment, in turmoil.
My broken Billy.
