Magic Realism, Who?

He is lying awkwardly on our favourite patch of grass,
a convoluted mist of silver draining steadily out of his chest.
Leaning over on wobbly knees, I put my hands on the gash where the stray clock bolt had struck him before rebounding into the sneaky summer light.
It had struck him while I wasn't looking. But when it had struck him, it had struck me too. And I am now
looking.
Clocks have always been my thing, you know? I'd seek them out and gather them in rows. Like
something people do with stamps or coins or tickets. That kind of thing.
It is another thing that I am always running a little late
in brooding over my collection, comparing amused notes over our shared apathy towards time.
I press down harder, stretching my fingers to cover as much of the wound as a hand my size possibly can.
He has just enough time to see me take off my ring (I figure it'd feel really cold against his gash) 

before closing his eyes.
Yeah, that should help. He needn't see this wreck around him.
I continue to pour over him, cupping away those sad stains that start to overwrite the stripes of his now-wet shirt.
This is a favourite shirt. This is a favourite boy.
Suddenly I cant recall just why I had looked away anyway.
I keep it light, the fumbling strokes. I cannot hurt him.
Or can I?
'Oii, I've got you now. It's okay, I'm right here' , I mumble, scared of our quiet.
'Shush, It's all right. Don't hurt. 
Oi, don't, 

don't hurt'.
And in reply, yet another batch of dusty days and seasons drizzle down the hole in his chest.
I am not ready to sob just yet. So I swallow some.
We are now surrounded by a pool of blooming vagueness -
brown leaves, pebbles, laces, filters, wrappers, biscuits and bills swimming around
in the puddle of his silver, amongst
other things.
Lost, demented, darling
things.
‘Oii! Stop. You are bleeding Us 

all 

out! And my hands are all aches and stains now. Oii Oi oi!

Make.it .stop!’  I scream, 

my voice a lousy ghost of my panic.

He rolls around a little, more undone than unheeding.

Now I go back to half-whispering.

Something’s got to give. I keep stretching my palms to fit his spreading wound and

he keeps bleeding fresh bursts of silver onto

my favourite patch of grass.

‘Oii, oi oiiii

open your eyes. It’s getting so dark. And I can’t see.

Oi, please?’

Slowly, with a tiredness that looks 

a lot like me, he opens his worn out eyes, 

barely.

And suddenly, all at once, I recognize the shade of void that I had been trying to awaken.

More out of habit than appropriateness, I smile into his beautiful gaze.

‘I’ll leave now. I’m removing my hands from here, okay?  Be all right. Be good 

when you are done bleeding..’ .

 I watch my numb fingers make a lame attempt at rearranging that familiar mess of hair across his forehead. ‘And oh, change into something else. 

Something not a shirt’, I add.

Something about that makes him smile back,

 a little. The flailing

authority in my voice, perhaps.  

‘Oi, does it feel any better?’  I plead, beginning 

to lean away in a dizzy, dizzy circle.

‘It feels better’, he calls back.‘Yes,

it feels

Nothing’