The quiet languor in his eyes...
the subtle strength visible in the slope
of his muscles...
the sinew in his stringy hands
and the gentleness they imply...
the promises his lips weave, both in speech
and in silence...
the words printed upon them in
black ink, read them to me, I've
The somber peace that falls over us both
as translating inside to out becomes
too difficult a task.
It's dark in here, and it's
dark in him, you know how some boys shine?
I'm clinging to an unfounded hope that
something can restore his gleam.
The ability you have to so wrap your head around words and write them in such a way as i'm seeing here is rare and enchanting. If I had the time tonight i'd read every word you've written. And believe me, I mean that. I wish I had your talent.