Admire the proportions, the features, the confidence.
These are supposed to define the ideal male.
These things have nothing to with my perception of ideal.
When I put myself in that position.
I call myself Michelangelo, David in front of me.
I admire his proportions, his features, his confidence.
I throw myself so far into the fantasy, reality becomes a fog.
Enamored by him, his features, our closeness.
I am entranced by him, we transcend into the unknown.
I return to reality, and realize that I've gone too far.
I can't take back the words I've said,
or the time I've spent staring into his eyes.
But I'm no Michelangelo and he is not David.
My inspiration is much closer to my heart.
The love in my heart.
The passion beneath the gaze.