Three boys

 Three boys outside my window are 

Throwing glass shards at each other

While I sit here, inside, on Saturday 

Night, writing by the rays of my

Match. They’re laughing and

Running, crying words I’ve never 

Heard before, hurling broken beer bottles

Against the wall of my home—

Picking up handfuls of fragmented

Love, bleeding by the palms of their 

Hands, disregarding the pain. I wonder

Whether they sought this out, whether 

It was spur-of-the-moment combatting—

Or if they gathered up all their empty

Bottles from the week for this moment, 

Creating weapons to play with. I sit here, 

My match becoming ash, spilling onto my 

Notebook, a stain sure to linger when

I close the cover, and wish for some glass

Of my own.