Midding

Midding

Drawn to the fire like a moth, though the burn of the wisps don’t hurt, instead they engrave the memories of our hours. Spent talking, laughing, crying, enjoying the fresh breeze. You are outlined by the sun, with a gold lining as if god himself touched you and presented you to Earth. For you, the angels weep, as they wish they could take you back in their arms. God's favorite, the skies fortune, the stars gateway. Your body hones achilles physique, your beauty blessed by Athena, and your eyes glimmer like the crystals in the dark. To be in thy presence is exalting, an honor no other could receive. To be chosen by one of such caliber, feels as if this is all a dream and to awake would be to beg for death and fear.

And the flowers washed your face, the gold shimmered on your hands. The stare of envy that you’d get, swallowed by their sinister lies. You are the canvas that gods paint each night. You are the moon that we so like, and every night the stars all shine and they can see the space collide. Inside those arms what do they hide? Your name sticks out like a hanging sign, to speak it would raise an eye. Yet they’d speak it more than once, it was such a delight. To escape the body, breath, free will–won’t you join it for the night? The gleaming feeling of overwhelming lights. Thralled by the touch, could you stay a while? Track the lines on your face, how many places have tired the soul of the fire. You, crafted in the coal and pyro, bathed in the finest rain, clung to by only the greatest silk to ever raise. How could one, one of such adonis, fall into the great abyss. Maybe you were the reason that they stayed, to wait and come and say: We love your smile, your worn attire! Raise your fist and fight for fire! For Gods have walked all over your soul and body, for monsoons have builded you for eternity.

Carry the sky. The atmosphere, with pride you carry it, the air, humidity. The monsoons, the fungus and decay that aromatizes the surroundings with a toxicity so sweet. You carry gravity. The molecules, the grains of sand that waves wash over, slowly carving and grading you into an opal, crescent moon. Oh dear, my love, my pride. The joy of violins singing in the night, let the milky light caress your thighs, collapse. Fall into my arms and reside, as for once you’ve made a home inside of mine. Shooting stars onto my skin, starstruck to think that you are all mine. Is it true? Can I call you mine? Put your head in my hands, a sanctuary just for you, even when the days grow cold, you can nestle into the palms. To cherish you would be a privilege, bestowed by only gods. You sound like droplets in the caves, the echoing of bells inside a church, the wings of birds on summer afternoons. It’s you. You are the light that passes through the blinds, the fresh flowers outside, the sparkling lights at night. A euphonious chime to the falling leaves, an elixir of eloquence. Almost lyrical, the tears out of eyes, to submerge into your soul, feels like a dream.

Hold your hand out to the stars, let yourself stretch. Nothing can replace your light. The melodies of quiet summer nights, the aux cord of a car, a rooftop over sunset. To me you're more beautiful than all these things, to me, you’re more than just a summer song. Run through fields of flowers, play around the woods, lose yourself in the wind. And anything can end, but can you and me, forever be meant? Binded by eternity? Resemblance of a chiseled model, yet simmered to the soft, hardened texture of a structure. Not weakened, endurance of a dozen poses, excruciating in the arms of those who’ve fed more than had eaten. Let the crafter prick a needle. Let the sun embrace you warmly, let yourself find peace and comfort to the sound of wind and ice. You’re an unforgotten memory, a glimpse into a butterfly, the architecture of an empire, the sound of crickets in the night. Head on your shoulder, talk till the tears come out. You’re just a boy, so much for growing.