BISHOUNEN

There they go
the bishounen
the pretty-boys
with their straight brown limbs
and hands like butterflies
alighting on everything.
I watch them;
I am a voyeur of sorts
following the lithe
spring
and padding feet.
Panthers, or maybe
young lions
manes rippling like
liquid amber
as the breeze kisses their faces.
It used to be my face,
my cheek
my brow
over which the wind trailed
cold, wet fingers
and my delicate shiver.
But these days
no-one looks at girls anymore
and, anyway
at twenty-three
I'm far too old
to be the subject of a male gaze.

A case of dreams being more powerful than reality.