Untouchable

Sometimes I'll look at myself in a mirror and wonder who I'm looking at.
It surely can't be me, can it?
I'm hardly an adult, yet one glance at my face and anybody could see the tired lines and hard edge of somebody much older.
I've got the far-away look of a veteran who has seen too much.
I've got the black heart of a murderer, encased in steel to keep me from feeling any pain.
I'll have to touch my face, make sure that it's me that I'm seeing.
Then I'll hear him close by and maybe then my heart will ache because he's so far away.
It's like he's right next to me but universes away at the same time.
I know that he's got those lines, that hard edge, the trauma, the black heat just like I do because I've done that to him.
I made him feel that way.
Sometimes, when it's quiet at night, I can't help but hear him crying in his room.
There's this huge gap between us and it hurts so bad but neither of us know what to do to fix it.
I want to creep into his room and crawl into bed with him. I want to hold him until he stops crying and everything is alright again because he's too perfect to ever have to cry.
But I can't. It's not allowed because it will only hurt more.
If we walk next to each other and our fingers so much as brush, there's a cold silence for days, even though I feel so inexplicably warm when we touch.
I can't make sense of how I feel of how he feels or how we can't just fix things.
He's untouchable, a million miles away when he's right beside me.
Sometimes I'll find him looking in a mirror and I'll wonder if he recognizes himself.
Because I don't.