I dance across his eyebrows with room to walk about
Ski down the slope of his nose
I settle above the shapely lips and play his hairs as harps
Only braving to glance down his dense, prominent chin
I sigh, making my way back up his satin dark coverings
Swing in his falling curls to his lobe, once pierced
From there the jungle of black mass, though soft, is a journey in itself
I’d take my time around his eyes, the deadly holes they are
Trap you in, warm but dark
They dance around over stimulating the situation; taking charge
After barley escaping the pull from his deep sockets I press on
To an opposite ear with the twists and turns turn my stomach and urge words to be whispered
I rest there, forgetting the dark painting of the boy
Fully aware of the existence of him.