He has shards of crystals embedded in his heart, and his rusted wounds bleed from the rose. He smells like vodka, but he talks as if he engulfs fireballs. He always brings his broken violin because he has a shredded past, entwined within his music sheets. He smiles because the mermaids once brought him down, and he cries because he has whirlpools and blizzards etched in his ribs.
He’s always on the corner of Jefferson Street, wearing tattered jeans, telling me that its “trendy.” His white stubble trails to his neck like a map to his rugged past. His hands are calloused. I know because he squeezes me tight when I give him lunch. He’s the kind of man capable of lifting the universe.