He laughs past his troubles,
just like me.
The canyons on his face scream
of everything he's been through.
But his hands are so soft,
softer than you'd expect.
He tells me stories
of the words that came from his fingers
and the dreams that came from his eyes.
The longing in his heart is apparent
from everything he missed out on.
But he laughs,
just like me.
Wearily, he goes to hang a broken clock on the wall,
as I sit down in my bed and cry
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