Beyond the Pines

Hair like Leo.
Not really,
but salty enough.

Always taking chances,
running from things
and at things.

Heart like a Polaroid picture,
and words that cut.
Cut deep, and not deep, at the same time.

Never can put him into words.
But that’s how it ought to be,
with a creative mind like his.

If he were a piece of art,
I think he’d be a canvas, with
bold colors and muted colors,
and fraying bits,
and holes cut with knives.

One day I’ll put my feet up,
read his work,
and smile at who he’s become.

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