He weaves words into metaphors, a syllabic alchemist with stories dripping from his fingers forming puddles on pages, painting night skies and the gaps in-between the stars because he was carved from twilight with crescents in his palms from carrying time travel letters to lost months, galaxies entwined with his mind and stanzas falling cosmic into his hands mapping out lines until poetry soaks into his skin waiting for the sun to rise and all because the boy had moons for eyes.