It’s a Sunday on a Thursday.
High off his words and drunk from his lips.
He stares at me blankly with his caramel eyes,
disarming me layer by layer.
The weapons surrounding my heart
do not phase or deter him.
He looks out at boats tumbling
through the clashing Hudson tides,
as I stare at him with wanderlust.
With him the mundane
Yet, it’s his past that confines him
within a peninsula of his own.
He claims to be broken, but
there’s only allure in the cracks.
I attempt to build bridges to his heart
and ladders to his mind,
in a sheepish attempt to take his pain away.
And like light through a stained glass window,
illuminate the art within his beautiful mess.