Who is he to question or admonish him?
He who holds him tight, are only his hands.
He who cradles him, is only his ghost.
Who are you to defend his reality for him?
Who is she to tell him he is naked when he cries?
Only when his soul is drained, he cannot speak.
Only when he is pampered, he is lonely.
Who are you to measure his flesh, in that kind?
Who were they to push his buttons in summer?
Can he not speak and be heard at the same time?
Can he not hold up a mirror to the sun, and shine?
Who are you to colour his eyes a dirty brown?
Who is he, to hold him in gratitude now and forever?
He does not carry a heart on his bloodstained sleeve.
He does not carry his shoes on his shoulders either.
Who are you, to provoke him into being beautiful?
Who are you to question and answer for him at all?
He doesn’t begin with a favour, and end in a paradox.
He doesn’t write your name on his pillow every night.
Who are you to vitiate his existence, by talking about it?