My Muse Is a Boy

He slinks to his place under the tree, carrying his bag of art that swings against his slender legs, and he sits on a leaf-littered patch of grass that’s surely brown beneath the dull oranges and yellows of the leaves. And as he sits, his shirt lifts up, revealing just a taste of that delightful flat stomach, which is only one thing of beauty about this boy. There’s a list. A long list of beauty and perfection and even grace as he taps his feet on the ground and drums his fingers on his lean thighs, listening to whatever music is his preference. I can’t help staring and I can’t help feeling like I’m stalking this boy that’s just a few years younger than myself. But his beauty enthralls me to the point of hypnotization, to the point that I can’t look away, until he looks in my direction then my eyes go north, east, south, west, whatever direction he’s not in. But seconds later I’m back to taking in the shape of his torso and the strong muscles of his forearms that are revealed by rolled up sleeves. Then, I’m back to his lean thighs and the way they taper down to his thin, but strong and firm calves. He looks over in my direction once again, this time I’m frozen and can’t look away. He smiles and my body starts to tremble and I feel as if I could crumble away at any moment. He rises from his patch of grass, leaving his bag of art behind him. Now he’s next to me and I can’t seem to open my mouth to say a simple “Hello”. He’s silent as well, but then he Kisses me Kisses me Kisses me Now I’m back. Staring into space. I look to the left a bit and he’s there, now lying on his patch of grass, listening and tapping and drumming.