I rode a Trojan horse off to sea with the winds of tide.
Off with a quil and a sword and a helmet to protect my
head the size of a melon soda;
I wondered,
did Dorian ever grow his hair long?
I envy you, Dorian,
with your silky locks and impenetrable gaze,
slanting, almost cursing mouth filled
with gasp.
Portraits do not exceed the size of its canvas,
but you seem to breathe Life, Dorian.
You seem alive.
Perhaps the color black suits you or your tie;
perhaps the ground on which you walk upon
turn grey and wither with every step.
They say you die a little each day, Dorian.
Are you looking for a lover?
One’s whims turn to coals with every feathered touch.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and
don’t forget to cover us.
Wrap me in the shade of your *****,
and maybe tonight will be the kindest of clouds.
Lay down beside me, Dorian, and kiss me on my lips.
I have long since felt a stranger so humid and dry.
Wrap your tongue around my finger, Dorian.
Taste me;
take me breath by hurried breath.
Grounds will shake and split to quarters into the far
corners of the Earth.
There was a play, staged at the living room, where the couch
used to be.
I heard a hiss on the recorder the step you
started grinding your hips pressed unto me.
I took a hold of you, dear Dorian, and you vanished in thin
air.
Goddamit, Dorian, we never talked about Chaplin.
I never said anything about grieving or weeping the insides
of my being.
Dance with me, oh Dorian!
Before the clock strikes one.
Before you fade and your face becomes a smudge on my arm.
Look at me, Dorian, *******.
Look at me.
Look.
This is the sound of your embrace,
and of a million and one hues pressed clear in wells of oil.
I loved you, Dorian,
as much as one portrait hangs somewhere, gathering dust and memories,
waiting for a breath,
a sigh,
a touch,
a face.