Broken Bearded Boy

Long drawn out coffee granule days.
Deluded. I sit staring at his current life.
Lonely. Once again the folded, discarded jumper
is left on the chair. Screams of foxes high-pitched
cut into my memory of his look-away eyes.
Echos of their hysterics shadow his sensitivity.
Mid-afternoon drags its sunlit feet into dusk.
"Cold" he replies, soft Mancunian twang that
I had already given him the Sunday before,
passed by in the West End rain.
All warmth is withdrawn.
You are my type broken bearded boy.
Awake in my haunted eyes 'til dawn.