A good pair of boots will carry you far.  When the wind tears at you and the cold grips your spine, you’ll cringe and look down—down to your boots, who will give you a reassuring nod and push you forward.  When the rain has drenched you and the sun has exhausted you, when you’ve fell upon the steps defeated, it’s your boots you’ll see, crusted in mud and memory and it is they that will remind you how far you’ve come, how far you have the ability to go.  When the people have sneered , and the calls are anything but lovely, you’ll look down in shame, and you’ll see your boots there, and you’ll remember you’re made of something beyond glass, and then it will be those very boots that carry you away.

Your laughter is beyond me. The way you groove, I could never.  Every time you turn, you see me stuck in place—in the supermarket parking lot, walking about the woods, opening the front door—you come back and help me forward.

“You alright?”

“Mmhm.” 

You give me weird eyes but you keep going and I’m joyous for it.  You’re the cool kid: dancing and laughing through a world that couldn’t understand if it stopped and watched for a hundred years.  You’re it. Life. Love. Keep pulling me along.  Keep bringing me forward.  I’m drunk on your laughter. High on your sway.  Lost in it all, the way that you play.

Drop the act.  Lose the stiffened back and play like you used to. Laugh at the water again.  Don’t think so hard or so often.  Let the words blend.  Let your voice sing.  Don’t hide from the lens. Don’t hide from the Sun.  Make love to the Moon.  Go easy. Go well.  Your scars are miniscule. Your hardships hardly so.  You’re warm and dry and fat these days. Stop dreaming of things beyond the window and embrace the wet socks it takes to find joy.  Remember your legs. Remember the boys’.  Remember that you were great once but don’t dwell and remember that you are different now.  Be kind and forgo petty comparison.  Breathe deep without pain. Laugh in the face of your challenges.  Be the man you were born to be.  Live up to your name.  Let your blood boil; rebel.

He had never seen the Fall of another land.  He was born here, and had built his life here. But now his first love was free with herself and he was on the brink of his manhood.  His friends had plotted against him and, though he wasn’t angry, he felt it time to go.  The cigarette hung loosely in his lips. The worn gas pedal was light under his foot.  The leaves rose and fell as the exhaust blew warm air upon his street.  His mother cried.  His father worried. But he had to find his way.  The road South was all his heart could find.  The leaves had lost their color.  His home had lost its way.  His blinker signaled his exit, and he turned the wheel. He was happy through all his fear and calm amongst his uncertainty.  He was invincible.