Bedsheets Hanged as Curtains

I’ve slept on a floor for months and
in the same room lives a man on bed.
The man is only twenty three in his IDs
but his face looks old.
He waits till the time of God (4 a.m.)
to let his eyes rest for the day.
He tries to talk to me once in a while,
maybe he wants to know if I’ve metamorphosed
into a man yet or not, if I’ve slept with
few women around and started skipping baths.
I laugh off the conviction mostly.
I claim myself a boy only,
I don’t like being called a man.
I once asked him about the time he left boyhood,
“when was it, how did you know?”
he pointed to the books and the dirty
clothes by his bed,
and he smiled and I laughed.
I did not understand anything,
neither did he care to explain.

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