His quiet intelligence simmers just below his clouded and curious eyes, eyes that have seen and hunger to see more. Eyes hungering for the feeling of true connection and more than a shared cigarette at the last call of a bar. He knows he is intelligent, he has worked for it, but for reasons unknown he masks it in jest and drink. But the moment you get him alone, feel his hands gliding across your arms and feel the blood pulsing through his deep veins, you feel his mind pressing through the insecurities. The mind of a true artist; someone gentle, kind, protective, passionate. A silken pompadour sits on top of a quizzical brow, always seeking to be inspired, brows that move up and down to an unheard melody of a song only he can hear in his heart. How can this boy not know how truly grand he is without the input of others? How can he be so nervous when he could be so great? Youth will fade to experience and he will soar and we will all be lucky to have had his hands upon us.
His mouth requires pause. It’s like whiskey. It’s deep and you feel it in your knees when you look at it or taste it too long. His tongue wisps at his teeth, framed by full lips, wisps like a string of smoke sneaking out as they part. With your thumb pulling pouting lips to parting, you know how it would feel to have his mouth on your rib cage, piercing through your skin like scissors through tissue paper, forcing the breath right out of you. His skin is smooth and firm, the skin of a breath of fall air and moonlight. There’s nature and grace and beer and musk, a will to prove himself, a will to succeed, a will to feel everything the world can offer him. It’s an old soul and a young heart, a mind on Neptune, and lips on mine.