calculation is null
I tapped his trunk; the syrup was stale.
Nude reclining on a bed.
The man laying on my bed asleep is long. From his matted
hair to his smooth toe knuckles, he measures six feet and
four inches. He does not do laundry often; a light odor of
musk and sweat swirls in his wake when he moves. He is
effortlessly graceful, the magnificently carved muscles in
his legs and shoulders directing his change and shift with
microprecision. A plum colored birthmark, oval, oriented
head-to-feet long, marks the border of his left ear
cartilage and his skull. He cries. Subtitles annoy him, and
he does not like sushi. He revels in Tom Waits. The
lightness of his spirit is settling; rooms bend to his
warmth. He is patient. He is late. Inevitably. His labret
is pierced. He is complected like honey, and his dark curls
lighten in the sun. Seb is moody; his down days are darker
than pitch. He is energized by cynicism and sarcasm: fight
the power! His abs are covered with a slight layer of fat,
softening their definition. Children love him; he
reciprocates. Questioning his position is vital, and he does
not want final answers. His joints pop like branches
snapping in dark forests when he gets out of bed in the
middle of the night to piss. He was born the day the US
signed the UNIDO constitution.
He is awake.