he is crisp blue eyes, a halo of soft smoke, words that lift me as high as the swings in my backyard.
he is dimples as deep as the ocean, a crown of barbed wire, music notes that flow from his lips in the form of whistles that make my heart sing.
he is faded edges, made smooth by the rubbing of sandpaper. he is kind touches, a gentle whisper, a harsh scream and a slap to the face.
he is in my dreams.
he is caught in the spaces between my every waking breath, caught between the blurred lines of my notebook, stuck behind my teeth and biting down on my tongue until i taste copper.
he is wild and careless and free, a song with no words just a beating drum and a reckless guitar. i follow the notes like a prayer, like they are my lifeline. he pops out of the sunroof of a car, but there is no sun, just a pitch black sky full of stars that couldn't even compare to the ones i see in his eyes. (he is the sun - but don't tell him or else he'll explode.)
he is an outline of a boy that i've filled in with doodles of someone nonexistent. i've created the imaginary. he is not a person; he is an idea of a person.
he is rushing waves (maybe). he is coarse stones (maybe). he is wilting flowers (maybe). he is burning stars (maybe). he is fizzed-out smiles (maybe). he is tired devotion (maybe).
he is crying himself to sleep. he has never let a tear slip out of his stoic eyes. he is blushing madly like a poppy flower. he is calm and composed, a sheet of paper kept still despite the wind fluttering around it.
he is a wish, and now i'm muttering poor excuses in my sleep. i want to grab him by the collar, by the hem of his shirt - intertwine our fingers together, i don't know - i want to hold him. i want his hand in mine and i want to trace the planes of his face so i can map him out, so he can stop being an idea and become real.
