He intrigues me
In the way that makes me guilty.
In the way I thought
I knew I'd never feel again.

He is intelligent
In the way that's only meant
To be found in the pages
Of wishful fantasies.

He is an enigma
An ever-changing puzzle
A red herring of a clue
That somehow speaks the truth.

He is a prize
Someone to be dearly coveted
And dearly beloved
And jealously covered up.

He is a Muse. My Muse.
The guilt of finding one anew
Teethes at my heart and soul
And I trash what I write of him.

He is inspiration
He is wishful thinking, hopes, and dreams
He is that spark
That pushes me back to this art.

He is.
And He was.
I beg that He'll forgive me
For finding Him.