i was not alive in the 1980s, but he was.

the empty apartment windows stared at him

like eyes that lost their shine.

walking the street became an act of defiance,

building up the kindling,

and watching people cross to avoid him

became a source of anger,

lighting the fire.

his heart was scored with burns,

each friend lost leaving their mark on him.

page 18 of the new york times:

100,000 deaths,

no names,

no faces.

not to them, but to him.

candles burned that night;

fire like passion, like defiance, like anger.

our own olympic flame

passed through the years,

keeping our stories alive,

hidden in the rooms

of those empty apartments.

i was not alive in the 1980s

but i am not coming of age in 2020.

i have been here before.

i have lived and loved and fought before.

the flame flickered

but never died.