The Golden Boy Sleeps,
His lips, last seen bruised and swollen from hard kisses
Now half-turn a sleep-puzzled frown,
Lidded eyes regarding dream-dark.
Skin, pale and taut, marked,
Dappled shadows in undappled glow of dawn,
Longs for tongue, lips, teeth,
Hard, open palm.
Echoes of the night's pleasures fade but reluctantly,
And depart, in tears, as the workday looms nigh,
Vowing to return when again the moonfire rises
And blood burns from electric touch.
How blessed to sleep with my love in my arms.
How terrible to be driven from that warm nest by the needs of verse.

The Golden Boy Sleeps,
His warmth lingers on my skin,
And I must quiet my joy and let him wake in peace,
Though I would crow for joy that he is mine,
That this slow-dying night was mine,
That the embrace
Soon-to-be heralded by blink,
Smile,
Stretch ...
That this to will be mine.

Scott "Scix" Maddix
September 12, 2003