what's the right way to love a king?

i. The revolution is born into the mind of a 19 year old insomniac
in the early hours of the morning.
He recounts his ideas with revelry the next day,
conviction spilling from him like a glass too full.
You notice the way he speaks of his ambitions with a dreamy sort of frustration.
You can tell he knows he was meant for more.

ii. You read once that some men are born to be great,
destined for the history books.
They say their names were made to be chanted,
cheered,
remembered.
They say divinity makes a home in their bones,
a crown placed on their heads as their welcome to the world.
You ask yourself if that’s why he walks with a hunch
(does it get heavy sometimes?)

iii. He learns to trust you.
Before long,
he slips his crown off in front of you.
He tells you that the boy he is could never be king,
that he would crumble under the weight of the world.
You want to tell him destiny doesn’t pick wrong.
You want to tell him that you admire him
for all those times he stands straight,
with a back-breaking load to carry
(stature has nothing on that kind of strength.)
You want to tell him
that he’s the kind of man the world needs,
and that that crown
wouldn’t look nearly as right on anyone else.
You want to ask if he can hear them.
Can’t you hear them chanting your name?
Can’t you feel glory in your bones?
Don’t you realize what you were made for?

Instead you lend him your ear and shoulder,
remind him who the hell he is on the days he forgets,
and you stay.
You hope it’s enough.