The boy was sitting on the stone steps of the abandoned church.
A broken up and scarred guitar sat next to him.
Head in his hands, I heard him mumbling.
What he was mumbling, I couldn’t hear.
His face was still hidden away, when his guitar toppled over next to her.
The boy moved his head up and hands slightly down, only to reveal his eyes.
Those eyes; half-lidded, looked at his distressed guitar.
Almost pure black; a puddle of pristine darkness.
He reached over to grasp his fallen treasure and then placed it on his lap.
His whole face could be seen now; plump cheeks and a petite mouth joined those eyes.
His skin; pure porcelain, seemed to glow in the luminosity of the shining moon.
There, he strummed, there, he sang quietly to himself as the night streamed on.
There, he existed and there he stayed. 

He lay again on those stone steps of a broken religion house.
At first not moving, only breathing into the sky, lying without any desire.
His hair spread out around his face as he looked at the sky, framing him like an angel fallen.
Maybe he was an angel.
He lived outside a church and brought about unknown radiance to people without their knowing.
He was simple and pure.
His guitar was not around today.
What happened to it, it must be inside the church.
He looked lost without it by his side.
Not complete.
His knees now hitched up to his chin, his bare feet wiggling on the pavement.
They look dirty, as if he’d never worn shoes before.
Does he have any?
He looked like the type of boy who wouldn’t care. 

Today is bright.
Midday I see him.
He walked out of the church, clutching his guitar.
Panta dragging along and his tank top had fallen on one side.
He looked empty but full at the same time.
Maybe he has an empty desire but a full heart.
He must have a dream, a life and a family.
Today he stands as he sings, his voice a little more full.
Maybe something good happened? 

The rain thrashed down on his matted brown hair today.
His hair; short wavy tendrils, the colour of coffee.
Rain poured.
His pantsmdragged across the dirty floor as he spun slowly.
He looked like he was in pure bliss.
It’s been four days now.
How is he living so carefree in that church?
Does he get cold, or hungry, or lonely?
People looked at him today.
But not like me.
They looked at him with furrowed brows and pouted lips.
Oh look, a homeless boy, they said. 

Today, I gave him a name.
Luhan.
Pronounced Lu-Han.
Lu roughly meaning deer in Korean.
He resembled a deer in his features.
I noticed that today.
Luhan.
My Luhan, when will i talk to you?
He intrigues me so.

A man got injured today; by my very hands.
I was watching my Luhan comb his hair with his delicate fingers.
He was wearing shorts today, his soft legs sprawled out under himself.
A man walked over to him and sat.
My Luhan didn’t bat an eyelash.
The man talked to him slowly with a smile on his face.
He went to walk away, but the man grabbed his arm.
I moved close