The Boy Who Played With the Devil

Many years together that a connection has grown over the people it watched. I have watched him grow and I have watched him try to love what was around him and what was in front of him. The years I watched him hate the small and the big but the connection between the two held him up high and I would love nothing but the in he held locked up and at times when the storm he created held us apart was brought to daylight; he would love back. Seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, years would be a race around the track for the next. I watched while tears fell down his cheeks, while it hit the floor and crashed into the wooden floor. When I wasn’t afraid I laid right next to him while his body would freeze in confusion and thoughts. I wanted to understand. I wanted to know who he was, what he wanted and what happiness meant. A life so simple became so difficult and the word why flew as if it was the bird that sang to you every morning. A day filled with bright skies turned into a dark tent. A night filled with stars was nothing but another night. Dark was dark and dark meant alone and alone meant thoughts and thoughts turned into questions and those questions never had answers. At the age of seventeen he had seen the devil and they played hell and when he turned nineteen I watched him lay in bed watching time pass by as if it was a missed train. He looked back at me when I realized I was just the ghost, the ghost of the boy I tried helping and without warning another question ran through the two minds, what will it be, my heart or will it be his?