My boy

My boy
always standing at the balcony
of the house that I left

My boy
on Sundays wears the blue shirt
I gave him on his birthday once

My boy
tries to move on,
tries to date other dancers

My boy
keeps the ticket from the movie
we first saw together

My boy
lives in Marseille
but dreams of coming to New York

My boy
saves all his money
to buy the painting that I liked

My boy
listens to recordings
of my poems about him

My boy
smokes and drinks Tanqueray
because I smoke when I drink gin

My boy
reads Bulgakov at night
because I called him once "blue Woland"

And all this might be just fiction
but perhaps it's not a lie.