Solomon

striking silver.     vibrant sights.

silence falls into my hands.

against the lights,     my brushstrokes soften,

pen, softly rowing-    colors into threads. 

/ a mural’s reflection. 

a splitting line, i trace his skin,

a polished blue-     light as morning dew.

hold it.   right there.   perfect.

his neck is the most welcoming surface

i’ve ever seen.

slender and sculptural.

my ideal muse.

my greatest project,

he serves as a canvas, 

exposed and dismantled,

he is my doll.

a mural in plastic,     a decoupage of skin,

stained by ink.     sticky and sweet.

his lips are the finest shade

of red i ever did see-

a carmine tint, matte yet faint

like the residue of a letter’s kiss.

his body is a delicacy-

his arms-   connectors,   his legs-   pillars,

puzzles and extensions-

the foundations for my final piece.

my toolbox of creation.

strings.  needles.  glue.  construct.

tighten into place.   a mannequin.

his neck. his arms. his legs. his face. his skin.

painted. drawn. assembled. sewed onto plastic.

a pentagram of parts,

both illy placed and flawless.

i admire his physique-

release a sigh of satisfaction-

i think i’ll name him—

Solomon.