flying…

… off the page.

when a man celebrates himself he does so in expectation that he will not need to sacrifice his fingers to retain the sensitivity of his hand. suppressing the burden of my touch remains an indescribable chimera, an intimacy that if not for the interlacing of poetry, distant ecstasy could not live. a sensation of perfection flows through me but comes only in virginal prose that i am humbled to feel when he retrieves the eternities of my love and with natural adoration transforms his hands into wings.