he speaks as the hero
eyes that glow - no shade
oh, the stars have carved themselves into his skin
ursa minor on his forearm, glittering.
he smiles lovely
remarks on cold acclimation
Burroughs in the dark, lampshade
under covers w/ Naked Lunch
I ask him if he's read Rimbaud,
or dreamed of impassioned lovers who dyed for art.
he kisses my face and says we are those lovers, the secrets of dreams.
he argues that he is not the Muse,
but i would paint chapels for him
ancient bible angels glowing with honey skin
i look at him - "familiar?"
he blushes and says "one should not be concerned with the picture,
but with the music that hums from it."
a passage in time. we are at the gallery again,
staring at Renaissance statues.
he lies on the carpet, hands pressing against the folds of heaven.
his beauty is darker than that of Adonis, he is a stranger flower.
one you cradle in your hands, one that grows in your head
like a Goya sketch. who loves in fear, ponders the mysteries
of Gabriel's feathers, which slowly drift,
falling from the ceiling. the window of god.
he takes one, puts it to his lips and breathes it in. the most holy art.
he has destiny written across his eyes now. new purpose.
he fades toward the sky. he does not look back.
but i do not cry for the lost lover. i sing.
my voice joins his and echoes in my blood.
he will become more: still life in Paris, sweet song melody, artist's tragedy
but the journey itself will be worth the wait.