he leaned against the railing of a second story apartment, traffic sung with an inconsistent penetrating hum to the south. north, if you squinted, a white sheath upon the mountaintops glistened beneath a waning moon. two worlds he was drawn to, contrasting within him like the city that was home. cold January air clawed at his naked torso, yet he stood calmly, thinking. about her mostly, about what he felt. feeling was a curious thing, especially as we attempted to paint it in rationalizations. it was like love that way, at least flirting with it. answers weren’t easy when it came to feelings, not for him, without formula he mostly bandaged together customs from wherever his experiences found them, then used those customs as an excuse not to feel. he thought about some memories, instincts he should’ve followed, opinions he could’ve ignored. mostly he just thought of her, about how he wished he complimented her more, about all the times he wanted to do something for her- and didn’t- because it wasn’t his place. he was mostly sad he never had the courage to tell her much of anything, anything to do with how he felt.