He is green and brown and gold, and rose when the sun sets, or when he blushes. He walks and breathes to music, trails weaving fading in and out into delicate curves. Silence is his dominion; cool mystery resides in his eyes. The damp shoreline is his road along which bathes in the sea accompanied by every gazing star in existence. He submerges into this salty blackness with eyes open and grasps at the passing shadows of life, smiling. Incense laces his hair lying limply behind; bells chime at his glance. The wind is born of his sighs, embracing and dancing about him, commanded by his hollow poetic voice, perfumed with the knowledge of magi and vagabonds. The rain baptizes him as he falls to his blessed knees before every beautiful storm, chasing the lightning and challenging the thunder. He sleeps in leaves blanketed in starlight and dreams in purple, of change and of travel. Voices startle him as his words are formed of wax which in the heat of conversation melt into viscous pools into which we must wade to retrieve his thoughts. These thoughts better glide upon a whisper or a breath or a touch from his silken hand. Tears on his face follow a path that obeys a soft flute, falling crystalline to his sandy carpet. His lips kiss the blue; his arms extend and grasp what is not there. He is the flower in the graveyard, the ring on my finger and the warmth in the world, and I am his only connection to the mundane.

Bridget Conn