He’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen,

Brighter than any other constellation,

Brighter than any other supernova,

In the painting that is the night sky,

That encloses the heavenly body that is he

 

His smile is like pure sunshine,

The golden drops of some guardian angel

That makes a sunflower never want to wean

From the golden gaze that is he

 

His eyes as gentle as starlight 

Softened by every object that his fingertips brush upon:

The stick of fresh cut grass,

The fluff of fresh cotton,

The softness of your blushing cheeks

 

Those eyes that sparkle in the moonlight

Being shaded by the drapes that are his eyelids

As he gently kisses your hands

 

The drapes are then pulled back,

Releasing the planetarium inside his soul

As he leans back against the lamppost at the end of the block

 

Those eyes that admire you 

As you sit in the back of an empty humid movie theatre,

The focus being only upon the feeling

Of your fingertips gliding upon each other’s skin,

The feeling that you want to carry in a golden locket

For the rest of your life

 

And yet the speakers inside this dark room,

The brightness of a single screen does not blot out

The way he looks at you and the sound of his snicker,

For he looks at you,

As if you were a soft sunset

With pastel strokes covering the sky 

With clouds that were made of angel’s wings

As if your own eyes carry the secret of the sun

While a series of moving pictures flash upon a screen

 

His laughter is the summer wind,

Gentle and sweet like a knitted blanket,

Cool and luscious like ripples on a lake,

That laugh that acts as music for dandelions to sway to

Creating the most intimate moment 

Between any living thing;

A slow dance that never ends

 

His lips taste of lemonade,

The kind stirred with a wooden spoon

Being sold by the end of a cul-de-sac 

By a young group of girls

Who poured too much sugar into the mix

 

The lips that speak of wonderful little things,

Those strawberry stained lips

That uttered the words you longed to hear,

You were unsure if he meant it at first

But now it’s solid and clear

 

His hair radiates the scent

Of freshly washed linen sheets

Clipped to the line of the equator, 

His locks that your fingers glide through as if

Each strand tailored to every curve of your hand

 

His soul blessed by the tears of God,

Crafted by the sun, the moon and the stars themselves,

A temple of everything good in this world

Unveiled by the tragic story of your past

Yet his soul continues to accept you

 

And he lies there

Upon the shoulder that is your own

Surrounded by the universe that he owns

 

Yet he,

He is a universe

And that universe 

Is yours