Sometimes I wonder who he is. Sometimes I wonder who he is, with the pierced ear and the inked skin. I wonder, what does it mean? I wonder, why did he do it? Sometimes I wonder who he is, with the crooked little smile- seems like he might be smiling at me. Seems like he might know me.
I wonder who he is, with his empty eyes and pale skin, who is he? Most times I picture him getting that scar on his right cheek; it looks like a moon. He might’ve got it in a fight, I would like to think he had a good reason. He probably didn’t, or what about the bruises around his neck? Where’s all that purple coming from? Why is he who I see? It seems as if he would like to scream. Or whisper. Or talk. Or laugh. Or cry. Or love. Or hate. Or lose. Or run, Or walk. Or move. Or maybe he wants to set the world on fire. Or nothing at all, he just stands still. Maybe I’m just picturing him doing everything I want to do. Sometimes I wonder who he is, as if he’s not me.
