Sexual Abreaction: Sketching Sleeplessness

My chin
is raw
from the earliest spit against
your half-day past clean shaven face all
masculine, instinctive, fundamentally passionate.

I studied the structure of your face while you slept, the force of your eyebrows, the set of your eyes, the pattern of your hair, and the systems and procedures in your body’s orchestrated movement through every breath.

I see in you, the faces of a hundred generations of searchers but yet a man giving way to happenstance and a hope that we’ve evolved a way to convey what we need, to tell with eyes only. To harness the obstinate beauty of a man walking strong like a street monarch marching in forward nobility, recalled by those who could not comprehend that love, aching behind him for eternity, like a thousand summers gone, like a symphony, languid and sad, their passions leveled by the enlightened moment of a final understanding that love that has slipped through their fingers like my hands through your hair: an abbreviation of all that has worked to invent you. And there inside you is love, a volatility in mercurial indefinance.

So give it to me.

Twenty one hours later, I still taste the beauty of your name in my mouth.