We see our own beauty in the eyes we behold.
Michael VII has blue eyes; not your standard baby blues. No, Michael VII’s eyes are similar to a gold prospectors pan; blue slate with hints of sapphire and platinum.
In his eyes are reflections of his heart: dark rubies set in a field of crocuses. They’re the kind of eyes kittens curl up in to nap.
Eyes so blue that the oceans envy their depth, purity, and color. Neptune himself weeps.
But it’s in Michael VII’s eyes I find myself. I have discovered truth and courage in them; I have found peace and life in them; and each day they show me his clarity and humility.
Each day when I kiss the softness of his lids, it’s like I’m tasting heaven. Sweet, sweet eyes.
Muse: goddess or power which inspires an artist.
Michael VII has become my muse. He inspires me through his reflection of me. He mirrors my thoughts and deeds. He mirrors my sentiments.
I too, have become his muse. He does as I request, like shaving chest hair or grooming facial hair.
As an artist, I cannot write without inspiration. Michael VII inspires me to write. Even when it is painful. The Truth is never easy to speak. It either distances lovers or brings them close.
I’m not talking lust. Do Michael VII and I feel the growling of lust? Certainly. But what I find more delicious is our rapport.
“Feel and write,” Michael VII prompts. “Let your pain bleed and let us drink of your wisdom. I know it hurts, but too few are willing to share themselves like you can.”
”You won’t laugh at me,” I asked.
”Why would I laugh at such beauty,” he whispered quietly.
“Because people do,” I answered.
”I’m not ‘people’, he said, “I’m yours.”
Michael: a Hebrew name which asks, “who is like God”.
I have met no less than seven Michael’s in Charlotte: Michael, Mike, Mike, Michael, Mike, Michael, and lastly, Michael.
The first picture of Michael I saw was of him running a marathon. His shorts weren’t tight but draped on his powerful thighs. Thighs that carried his frame strongly; thighs that were hard and muscular; but at the same time, when in repose, lay like drowsy eels.
Michael’s shoulders, like his thighs are powerful, but subtle; a whisper which lifts like dense fog to the snowy caps to the snowy mountain range of his shoulders.
His face is framed by a thicket of brown moss on his face, and a brown mop atop.
His smile is at once warm and inviting like the smoke rising from a chimney promising warmth; when you stand close to the hearth of his grin you can feel the heat of his frame.
My hand is comfortable on him.
Especially atop those thighs.