From Behind

The divots of his back threw shadows across his porcelain skin, already dotted and scared with burns. He illustrated his arms with ink so that the complexity of his stature made you rethink his age. From behind, he was a tortured mastermind, whose effervescence came more from his relative mortality than anything he said. It’s easier to judge a person’s thoughts when they think that nobody is watching. He pulled at the skin on his arms instead of playing with his teeth like everyone imagined that he would. Look closer, but not so close that he feels your breath on his skin or understands he’s not alone. Everything that he must see could have been a million years away, but it just looked white; he was encapsulated in an endless cloud field of majority rule over his minority rights. Nobody saw his face because he always walked like a soldier in front of the crowd until he hit the Berlin wall in 1988. He’s standing there now, with his nose pressed up against the grime and the darkness of his own imagined aura reflecting like a glittering diamond against the light of a happier tomorrow. We’re standing behind him, all monochromatic black and white, holding on to a vision of movement. The bones of his back are hidden by childhood, but we still watch for his wisdom. We are all holding our breaths until he lets out his.