The summer I turned 13, I fell in love with a boy with foppish brown hair and freckles. I fell in love with a writer, and I was not the only one. My best friend from the summer of that year told me later how she had loved him, too. She had a written a story -- and she let me read it -- about him walking down a long, lonely corridor, heavy with sadness.
He killed himself at the end of her tale.
I was horrified.
It was only this evening, looking back on my writing, that I realized I had killed him too in a different tale all my own. He had a strange kind of a sadness to him; I can see it on his face even now, though I have no pictures. He was the kind of lovely, ephemeral boy who drew you to him, made you long to touch him. You knew you had to see him before he was gone.
The poem I wrote is so bad I can only post bits and pieces. Forgive me. But the bits make me very very happy:
Barefoot we raced
Through grasses so green
As Copen paced
Through problems unseen
Oh Copen, dear, oh Copen,
Oh Copen, of what do you dream?
Drowned in waters clear as glass
Mirroring a soul so dark
Dead beside the fields of grass...
Grass grows still green in San Marc.
Beside a stream, a lovely stream,
A bare soul laid slashed open
Within his well-shod, troubled dream...
Oh Copen, dear, oh Copen.
For one morning, Copen,
Beside his little stream
His eyes did not open
Inside his little dream.