Lost Boys (Blue Hour Elegy)
I dream about them.
A rooftop at dawn,
the city emptied out,
streets hollow as ribs,
the skyline burning gold
like it had been waiting for us all along.
The west coast sun spilling over glass and steel,
and there—
shadows turn into faces
I had carried as ghosts for years.
First one.
Then another.
And then the rest.
Alive.
Breathing.
Laughing through disbelief.
**THEY WILL MEET AGAIN.**
**THEY WILL NOT MEET AGAIN.**
I dream of the shock—
a decade undone in a heartbeat,
their voices striking the air like old songs
I didn’t know I still remembered.
I dream of the warmth of their shoulders,
the way their eyes widened
like they were seeing a lost brother
dragged back from the grave.
I dream of us running,
and when we collided
it was like the world broke open.
**THEY WILL NOT MEET AGAIN.**
I dream of our embrace—
not as men made brittle by time,
but as the boys we once were,
restored in a single moment,
unbreakable again.
I dream of their arms locking around me,
pulling me so close I could hear
the uneven rhythm of their breath.
I dream of the weight of them—
shoulders pressed into mine,
hair brushing my cheek,
shirts damp with sweat and salt,
the sharp sweetness of skin
that smelled like summer nights
and long-forgotten grass fields.
I dream of the sound of us—
laughter cracking open,
sobs tearing through it,
all of it tangled together
until I couldn’t tell joy from grief.
I dream of their voices in my ear,
half words, half gasps,
saying nothing and everything—
the only language left
when years fall away at once.
Memories poured into us like floodwater—
midnights that never ended,
trouble that almost swallowed us,
joy too big for our bodies.
We were the lost boys.
And for that rooftop hour
we were found.
**THEY WILL MEET AGAIN.**
I dream of the moment it shifted,
when the light betrayed us,
when the rooftop blurred.
I dream of their faces breaking apart,
not vanishing at once
but peeling slowly into brightness—
eyes first, then mouths,
until the last thing left was the heat of their arms
fading from my shoulders.
I dream of voices thinning into static,
laughter collapsing into silence,
hands loosening though mine refused to let go.
I tried to stay.
I begged the light not to take them.
I clutched at the air where their shirts had been,
felt nothing but emptiness tightening in my fists.
**THEY WILL NOT MEET AGAIN.**
The city fell away.
The sky grew white.
The air went thin like it no longer wanted me.
And just like that,
they were gone.
**THEY WILL NOT MEET AGAIN.**
I dream of waking alone.
The blue hour of the east
seeping through blinds,
cold, indifferent,
staining the walls of my room.
No rooftop.
No voices.
No brothers.
Only me.
And the weight of what I had been missing.
I sat upright.
And as the dream bled out,
my tears escaped into reality.
**THEY WILL MEET AGAIN.**
