You have gone, but to you I am bound
As a demon to its darkness.
You wake inside me nightly in my sleep,
Ruling your nocturnal kingdom.

I close my eyes and open them to your silken hair,
Yellow strands catching an other-worldly sun
As only this realm can create,
Only in a velvet whisper.

And a whisper is what I hear
As you close the distance to touch my face.
I look up and you are beautiful as ever I recalled,
Your eyes never without their sorrow.

Serene and silent tailor you are,
and plausible thread I become in your hands.
As I bend to your will, you spin and pull at my fibers,
Straining me as I kiss your twisting golden fingers.

You are not truly here, but I scramble to salvage your hangman's boots,
Every remnant of you to which I must desperately cleave,
Every moment with you which I hold captive against my breast,
I chain myself to your familiar song of peace.

Reach for me blushing ethereal Cherub,
I sigh, in a passionate trance as your fingers kiss mine,
As, through your cupid's bow lips
You breathe a raging and rolling fire into my icy depths.

Your yellow voice echoes and bounces,
and prances and dances with the splendorous songs of heaven,
Thick with the sweetness of your youth,
Sparkling with the purity which quiets your heart.

Where are your wings, dear leader of the Cherubim?
For they are all in beauty you seem to lack.
Sweet Botticelli angel, stun me into silence
and sweep me underneath your canopy of feathers.

You mercifully press your body against mine,
Your shoulder muffles my joyous weeping.
Just as you tilt my head back and part your ruby lips,
A thick and monstrous darkness seizes your waist.

Weeping and reaching and panting.
Your face is twisted into an expression of angelic terror.
I hear my own voice pierce the violent wind,
“My home, my heart! Set him free!”

But you are taken from me, as every sunrise you must be.
My eyes flutter open in a daze,
My fingers grasp at the bed sheets which engulf me
As did your presence moments before.

A terrifying silence is all mine ears can hear.
I fight to remember your features,
Fading as quickly in consciousness
As they appeared, so strikingly accurate, in sleep.

Mortified, your silken voice trickles from my hearing,
Dripping into murky waters into which I cannot dive.
Tugging at my hair, trying to recall anything but
The splendor of your yellow tresses, which are all I see.

Quickly, panic fades into a dim submission,
Stretching my fingers and bending the bones,
I welcome them back to the steadfast reality
That they have not, in so long, brushed against yours.

I am thrust down into the realm in which you no longer come to me
As if by fire, as if by angelic revelation.
Here is where I dwell, the realm in which you are a boy
And nothing but, and everything short of a winged Cherub.

You have gone, but your name I do whisper
As one keeling at the corner of a deathbed.
You wake inside me daily in my reverie,
Dreaming of dreaming your dream again.