he was a masterpiece

a work of art

though he never saw himself that way

and i never understood why.

i preferred him to monet

to van gogh.

his eyes were the rich blue of the finest of silk

as wide as the pacific ocean

his lips as soft as rose petals

and the way he used to take them between his teeth as he worked,

ripping at the delicate skin ever so slightly.

his hair was as dark as a moonless night

always perfectly messed from sleep.

his skin was marked with constellations

and my favorite activity was stargazing.


Written by Kendall Wisniewski


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