Those frames through which he views the world,
That hair through which he rejects the expectations of modern man –
He’s glorious. Incredible.
Not a clue of the allure of his quiet charisma.
I want to envelop him in my summer arms and whisper in his ear:
“Darling, the enormity of my adoration for you, I have no such words.
And you no such artwork.”
He will not respond
But instead, remove his frames,
Envelop my sighs in his cheek,
And take my body as his artwork.
Filling in my emptiness with his hues,
Making my body solid as the bold outlines of his sketches themselves.
And my words of him,
Buried in his chest,
Shall echo in his dreams
And fight the monsters of his
Imagination.