Robin, Robin, Robin

Sometimes I’d stare at Robin while he’s sound asleep, only to stare at his face. His long lashes and messy hair, the way he breathes so peacefully, and the lips that part ever so slightly without a single care in the world.

Robin, the son my parents have always wanted. Frames of achievements he received throughout his years of living that overshadow the family pictures we took, the way his hands would always reach out to help, his voice that echoed around the church when he read the gospel, and the way he painted over people’s doubt when he smiled.

Sometimes I wonder about the things that go inside of his head. What he thinks when Ma and Pa tell me to grow up just like him, how he feels when people put more responsibilities into his warm palms. I wonder if he’s ever felt any other emotions behind the facade he shows the world.

I wonder if I could see anything past his smile, if there’s a face he hasn’t shown other people that I could claim as my own; what kind of expression he’d put on his face if I could crack that visage with the tip of my fingers. What color would flush his skin if I could continuously whisper the name that fell perfectly off of my lips.

Robin,

Robin,

Robin,

My curiosity felt famished, like it has never been fed for nineteen years, as if I needed to gnaw at the mystery who lay before me that bleeds the same red as I do. I wonder if I could have his warmth if I wrap my hands against him. Would I ever know how it feels like being a part of his system, knowing how his mind works, knowing the reasons why my head’s filled with every thirst of him?

I wonder if I’d be able to lay these words on him, what kind of response he’d give me once he knew the way I mused over him was more than blood could take. Maybe he won’t, because I’d bury this thought deep and away. He definitely won’t, because Robin wouldn’t treat so far into me as I do to him, and maybe I’ll be fine,

Because at the end of the day, he’ll tell me that he loves me anyway.