[Original] Poses
His eyes are trapped in a romantic wondering, when he softly walks in the room. He is petite as a teenager, but he has the elegance of a man in his arhythmic steps.
Once someone said that his almost limping walk is a mirror of his personality, half a joker half a Pierrot.
He forgot, because forgetting is his way to heal, that the other gay friends use to label him as “classy and pricy furniture”. Perhaps because of his shady eyes of hunter and his confusing smile. Or because it is not easy to hear him laugh or talk while he sits on the corner of a pink sofa listening to the wordy river of some friends.
He has been no-man’s man for so long that at first anybody could believe that someone has taken his heart.
“The Prince finally swallowed some milky pride.” Was the rumour spreading around. They giggled when they saw him passing by, without denying their jealousy or their envy, still looking hungrily at how the black jeans fitted his back.
If they only had known how much he hated his shyness, his childish appearance and his soft tone!
He has not yet forgiven himself for betraying his own expectations, probably he never will. There will always be that little aching slash in his chest of feeling cheated by himself, the same only person he has ever trusted for the first twenty-five years of his life.
As always, as he sits alone in the bed, the sun light shining behind the light curtains, a tear unsuccessfully tries to fly from his eyelids: he does not allow to show his weakness to the silence of the room. He unties his black snickers and rolls into the bed in a dance of movement, imitating a vigilant sleep.
Still, he is fighting to breath.
I remain immobile on the threshold, his stunning beauty preventing me to entry. I am his, my Love, my Soul. The contact of our glances becomes a sticky net, my gracious spider. I breath his oriental lily scent, I will give him everything.
It is unbelievable how he can complain about himself, about not being “enough”.
I have never wished for something else than him, I can not imagine something sexier. A ray of sun spots his chest beneath the white shirt.
I cover the distance in three large steps. I want him to touch me or I am going to die. He powerfully grabs my hair, pronouncing nothing, but clearly spelling love and desire from his hips. And it’s a fight of allusive kisses and promising caresses, while our clothes fall on the floor.
His fingers of ice imprison me, he is the wind lifting me up. I surrender, my thunder, I’m gladly defeated.
After love, I welcome him in my embrace, drying his moonshine drops, reassuring him that he is in a safe place, that he can trust me. This is the only magic moment when he allows himself to loose control.
And I love him even more.
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