his beauty is a blade, unsheathed,
a crescent curve of moonlight keen,
carving through the quiet dark,
leaving echoes where shadows had been.
eyes—two storms captured in glass,
torrents stitched with threads of flame,
a gaze that sears, that brands, that burns,
each glance a whisper of my name.
his smile—a fault line dressed in gold,
cracking the anchor of solid ground,
tectonic shifts beneath my chest,
a ruin where my heart was found.
he walks—a hymn, a tide, a theft,
drawing breath from hollowed space,
a sun too near, too fierce, too bright,
scorching me with tender grace.
i am ash and ember, fractured bone,
a ghost stitched thin on fragile air,
haunted by the ache he leaves,
a pretty boy, too cruel to care.