The object of my desire is a Renaissance man.
He possesses a know-it-all intelligence,
honest hands-up indifference,
physicality reminiscent of Paul Newman,
and maybe a little sarcastic wit.
He is neither too pretty, nor red-rage colourful;
he is plain-simple, and uncomplicated.
He will sit quietly, and eye fantasies;
he has an appetite for wild hearted thought.
He is not afraid to laugh at himself—
he does not mind being called ‘it’—
For he, at times, desires to be objectified.
It does not care if the bedroom is cold,
or if the door creaks loudly when you shut it closed.
It will not stand there and stare at you,
not try to catch your eyes with the fallacy
of this-is-how-romance-acts on their mind.
Instead, it will hop into bed beside you,
and hold you close; a transfusion of tender trust
instinct, waiting to be woken when you are ready.
It, eventually, will demand not to be called it;
to be called ‘I’, and serve out
some of those thoughts he has been thinking—
Provoke a fume of fabulous pure ravenous desire—
reversing the order, reversing the weight.