Beautiful

He’s beautiful --

and not because his

skin is sewn with threaded

sun or because his eyes answer

what I never thought to ask.

 

He’s beautiful --

and not because his hands

draw ruins in my back,

spelling out love with

fingers and palms,

even when lips and

tongues won’t confess.

 

He’s beautiful --

and not because the pearly

gates exist beyond his lips,

or because he makes me

want to be swallowed whole,

holy,

his.

 

I wonder what it’s like to be

nestled in his body,

finding solace in smiles,

ecstasy in his eyes.

 

He’s beautiful --

and not because his arms make

me want to be worthy,

not worthless,

held, no longer helpless.

 

He’s beautiful --

and not because when he speaks,

the consonants embrace

vowels like lovers, his

tongue: a gold

serpent, tempting and rare.

 

I find myself leaning

toward his lips

just to taste his voice.