Eyes and shoulders down,
I can’t see the color of his eyes-
Though I know the marbled blue and white like a map I’ve studied my entire life-
and his hair looks darker, like it’s soaked in sweat.
There are little shoots of silver in it.  
When he asks for a hug he sounds
a little bit sad and little bit desperate.
He feels solid when I put my arms around him,
but he doesn’t return the embrace.
I wonder,
secretly, guiltily,
if he’s tired of us.
But when he smiles at Hawthorne his eyes crinkle at the corners
and I know he loves him.
It’s hot and humid and heavy
and I know he works hard,
that he’s worn down at a job
he’s too smart for,
that he works too hard for.
I’m not sweating but I feel tight,
worried.
I don’t know what to do for him.