I watched him, all radiant bloomed and pale.
As he declared himself a tragedy.
the farthest person from beauty and rhyme,
completely and perfectly average.
He had small slender hands and a caved chest
that was moving slowly and passively.
Smooth like the soft movement of a weaver.
All repeatable, so calm and so tired.
A face of china, pale boned, and gold veined.
Lightening in his wrists and thunder steps.
Storm clouds for eyes, uproarious, damp- grey.
silver, gold, metallic, contradicting
Portugal lips, pink velvet and young wine
so anxious, so bitten back, so lonely.
There was just so much poetry in him,
so much poetry, I couldn't even breathe.
