i am covered in gold

i have been covered in gold this past year.  his muscles tensing against me, my nails digging into his back.  we have traveled the world, we have traveled each other.

but each night i go to bed, it is not his golden body i think of.

it's his. 

among his golden body

i went to find him and before i knew it, clothes were strewn on the floor, hands were groping desperately at each other and the bed was against my back with his golden skin against my front.  it was wonderful, erratic, spontaneous.
after he smoked a cigarette, sketching out one of his many projects and i drank wine, staring out the window at the vastless, all-encompassing sea.

among his nothing

I find him reading in his study, pouring over ancient books in languages that are considered dead.  his back is to me, but I can see the muscles in his shoulders work as he writes down feverishly.  I lay against the door frame quietly and he stills for a moment.  I know he knows I'm there, but he bends over his books again and ignores me.

among deaf concerts

of course the deaf one would  be famous.  he is a Beethoven- a Beethoven of violins, a modern-day genius, a prodigy: something uncommon, something forgotten.  he is brilliant.   his music is sad, melodies which materialize and whisper thei tragic stories to me.  I have heard his tragic story too: a boy left alone, a boy on his own.  a bo who can't hear, a boy with useless ears.  And yet, against all doubt and all odds, a boy who succeeds, a boy who brings hope.

among the boathouse I

Feet in constant movement,
my hands are in the air.
My skirt rustles around me,
and my bracelets create their music.
Bodies pressed against mine,
sweat and laughter in the atmosphere.
The deaf one is showcasing his talent,
and the golden one watches with pride.
I can't find him but I know he's here.
I wish he'd dance with me.

among his emptiness

like the deaf one,
like the golden one,
I went to see his room
and in it I found:
nothing.

among the golden one's sanctuary

his smiles hide secrets and
he's impossible to read.
not a closed book but
like a book unwritten.
his room only adds to
his radiance and charisma.
clean, yet charming, with
creamy walls and plush carpet.
but I see him- see him truly
in his paintings on his walls.
I see him in his oceans,
I see him in his meadows,
I see him in his forests,
I see him in his countrysides,
and then I fully realize,
that as I view these paintings
of sad people in beautiful scenery,
that his impeccable charm,
has left him undeniably lonely.