He is beautiful. Filigree glass, fire blown in love but cold to the touch, and breakable, his fragility tempered only by the strength of the spine running through the upright shape of him.
His mind is endless mountains and valleys, the depths and heights of which my traveller soul longs to walk and run and linger in until I have seen all and understood all and soothed with the touch of my words, and my hands and my kiss.
His face is young and old, full of wonder and doubt. His body is frail and potent: I want to nourish and nurture it and hold it for an age.
He stuns me. I’m not easily stunned. I am at once a crumble of myself, in my failings and fears, and a tower of what I see lies within me, as in him.
He is a cottage in summer, ivy on the outer walls, creeping around the window frames to catch a glimpse of our early evening. He is a child’s chuckle on the rose bed, the coal in the eyes of their snowman. He is my words punching lyrically on my old typewriter. To be the curve of the S and the backbone of the L in his scripted handwriting.
He is, he is not.