The burn out, moth eaten, child appears in the mirror.
Eyelids heavy and heaving they are, mouth gaping, gasping, he is carried everywhere. Not a burden, however beloved and precious, not curled in the clouded pit, nor heavy in the head. Just, there. Neither counterpart, nor copy.
Unnoticed he may go, but dissuasive he is not, existing beyond all disguises and designations.
He is at fault for your weightless string of silent infancy. He is at fault for the scandal that is imagination. The insufferable regret that plagues your thoughts is his desires unkept. He is the hand behind every obscene decision. Impatient is he, clutching sleeves and raw throats. Temptation is a grasp tightly held, he is the one who holds it.
The puppeteer, fundamentally inconsolable, the performance continues.