When I* look at him,
my feeble mind can't
help itself
but think, over and over again:
****.
When I breathe next to him,
it's as if I were breathing
in a galaxy where every
star or whirlpool
was the synonym of
****.
When I touch him,
my fingers wind themselves
up into each indent,
each bone,
each freckle
which makes up a balance
of things
that I can only
determine as:
**Oh my god.