By: Macy Perrine

He is
saintly.

an extra sprinkle of stardust
an extra stroke and polish in
heaven’s factory and the lord
pressed copper rings in his eyes
deeming him golden.

once-in-a-lifetime, the
kind of boy you never forget
no matter how many times
he forgets you.

he speaks as if the
secrets of the universe
tickle the underbelly of his
tongue he is

proud but humble, his
language a metered soliloquy.
soft words, soap words
clean and lavender

and sleek against your coarse.
he is an artist a musician and
a scientist but he is not
a poet.

you show him to grip the pencil,
the soft slab of prose. pocket-sized.
bite-sized. he eats it up, but his soap
crumbles white.

you press honey to hungry pages. bathe
in fragrance that you hand-mixed, and
think you would almost prefer this—to
leave the perfection
to him.