mix a gin

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he acted childish, sometimes. having been precocious, having never sunken his teeth into naivety and innocence, he became adult so quickly. and all adults are aware of the near perfect joy of childhood, how precious it is and how irreplaceable. he knew, and he knew that he had never really touched it, smelled it, or breathed in the way children do. so he acted childish, sometimes when he was with me, when he knew that i understood that he was floundering in an attempt to grasp at a feeling that he never understood, trying to fill himself so desperately with something foreign and fragile. he awkwardly reverted to an intentional immaturity in order to graze, simply, with his fingertips something that should have been his, for at least a short while. he reached with shaking fingers and a crooked grin.
but it escaped him, like stubborn fireflies on a cold night.












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