We are unintentional in our desire, in our hunger for the touch and feel of human flesh and the quest for our place in a human heart. We were human once, content in chains, in the ties that bound unrequited. Still as then, when our maker calls, we come. It is one prison in trade of another.
Only now, am I restless with an understanding, a need. Driven on wrestles dreams. And he was a cool drink on a June afternoon that lay light in spirit, still untouched by the heat of summer.
The first brief touch of his fingers grazing lightly across shoulder sealed his fate and when I call this one I make? He will come.
I move on silent wings that turn in a beat, pulse high and wild, these men too sweet.
