I can see his spine through his shirt,

Like a twine rope with unruly knots
His skin is pale as if the moon
Had been bottled  between his
Flesh and bones
His eyes cast fantasy on
The subjects of his stare,
A caption of a pale ocean
That broods incessantly.
Where rain is cradled in
It’s motherland, with no comfort
But a minute ricochet, drowned
By another.
His hand are skeletal, and I wish to
Hold them as if I could paint warmth
Into his skin
with the ends of my fingers
As if I could hold his face in my hands
And polish his cheekbones like brass
I’m crippled when he turns his lips upward
And laughs
His eyes become cool flames,
And his shoulders jolt upwards in lightness,
Immobile in the unyielding pleasure of
looking his way,

I take and take and take
With my eyes and my words

I indulge in his character,

leaving me breathless and in pain