he wasn't a saint in my eyes,
not with the fire that sparked his,
he never claimed to be perfect,
but I held him high.

in that fire there was heat
and darkness and passion.

the heat:
that got his blood
boiling over a hundred,
till his fists connected with
flesh and bone;
that melted hearts,
and melted clothes off.

the darkness:
in the moment before
perfect contact,
the second of silence
before cheer erupts;
in the confines of
dimly lit rooms.

the passion:
the seconds to hours,
and days to years,
till the contact of head to pillow,
or goal to net,
which ever came first;
the minutes which were moments,
too easily discovered,
underneath silken covers.

the moments that defined:
power and temptation,
love and lust.
skin and hearts that burned,

(skin that took the heat

of shoulder to shoulder hits,

hearts that took the heat,

of shame)
eyes that burned from that fire
into mine.