The Frail Light of Life

A flush of blood on his thin, porcelain skin;
he looks about...
and his lips pucker 'round
a sucking stone. A hard candy.
Lemon, apple perhaps.
He doesn't know he's handsome,
and he may not be, of course.
He's just so damn easy in his skin.

A youthful air shimmers
about his head and shoulders.
He chats-up a friend as
they wait for the tube.
His hands whip about in a flurry
suddenly
as he comes to something funny.
And then he changes the subject
suddenly.

All serious, now.

The bell chimes
the train's imminent arrival.
He gathers himself about.
His frail light dims
as he steels himself.
Stepping through the door,
he is a different man.
The depth of his gaze fixes
on his reflection in the glass.
His youthful air, now precipitate
in the memory
of his shadow on the platform.
Trampled, there, under the rush.

A bell chimes
the train's imminent departure.
The train pulls-away.
He's gray through the shade
of the window.
And then gone.