He never says what he feels.
His father used to say, "Your face is like a flower."
He wilts when he thinks about loneliness.
At seven he wakes with the sun, imagines it burning through the window.
He dreams he has cancer but has never been to a doctor.
Yesterday he imagined it even better: a spectacular New York end: crazy taxi,
stray bullet, runaway train—
In the final scene he's lying there with wide eyes,
mouth trembling like a wilting flower, struggling to speak to his father,
who is holding his hand and saying, "Don't try to say anything. I love you."
At eight he walks to the corner store for small things, just to remind himself he is alive:
daisies, oatmeal, salt.
Passing the subway stairs on his way home he realizes he could go underground
here and by ticket and transfer not emerge again from the earth for hundreds
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