His hair might be blonde and closely cropped,
Or perhaps brown and tousled.
He might always be the centre of attention,
Or perhaps be an insecure recluse.
Maybe people thought he had killed someone,
Or perhaps that he would die alone.
They maybe thought he was selfish,
Or he perhaps he was seen as optimistic.
And when the novel began
He was incarnate:
Breathing yesterday’s curry over
Sweating, into his soft cotton shirt,
Drumming his grubby nails,
on the arm of the chair.
He hated his parents;
Grieved for a lost child;
Loved his music;
Forgave his friend;
Found love, but failed her.
He lived out the pages
Aching with loss
The writer set him in a labyrinth;
The reader willed his success;
The story unfolds.