boys are supposed to have awkward hands and gangly limbs. they're supposed to have nice eyes and blushing cheeks when they feel shy, or soaring confidence when they don't. they're supposed to have little freckles along their wrists and hesitance when they hold your hand, tiny smiles and a heart that beats through their skin and into yours.
but he, he's not a boy.
no, he's got eyes made of lightning and a sword for a tongue, and his easy confidence rolls off of him in waves. his limbs are not awkward or gangly, but tall and strong, and he stands upright like he's holding up the sky, unrelenting and unafraid of the weight. he doesn't ever feel shy, because he grips me with his abundance of cockiness and eyes that tell me that he owns me, though he doesn't he doesn't he doesn't. his hair is as black as night, and just as full of infinity, defying gravity and only bending for my fingers. his skin is like gold driven up from the Sahara Desert, riches and diamonds woven through the lacy intricacy of his veins. the tallest mountains, the formidable valleys, they make up the sharp planes of his nose or the line of his jaw, the entire world finds itself in him and stares up into his unshakable eyes in awe. and his heart does not ask for permission, it slams through my rib cage and takes the place of my own, and he tells me, you are mine. i am not a boy, but I own you. you are mine. but he seems to forget that I hold his heart in my chest, like he has given himself to me while quietly, desperately, asking for my soul.
i suppose he was a boy after all.
