This boy is luscious.
Even his name rolls around the tongue like expensive whiskey.
He tastes it like a piece of cake.
A succulent fruit.
The name of an angel.
A celestial being.
A holy warrior with fierce eyes and a gentle soul.
He is lost in it.
Lost in the kindness and arrogance and purity.
Lost in a maze of inked pathways.
Demons and angels warring on golden skin.
Patterned perfection over glorious muscles.
He can almost smell the boy.
His slender, graceful hands.
That lean curve of his hip.
The shadowed nape of his neck.
It´s like honey, amber and a faint trace of caramel.
He is like poetry T-Bag thinks
and for a second
is amused by the literary comparison.
Sometimes white trailer-trash people
can and do read
and Dylan Thomas isn´t nothing to him.