You are Paganism.
The scent of vanilla is sewn into the fabric of your soft skin.
Your pupils speak spells.
An incarnation of satisfaction.
Such a cryptic and hypnotic shade of bright blue,
holding power within the leaves of sage and barley.

You are a piece of jewelry,
a wondrous stone hanging from the thin silver chain of society.
A brilliant peridot  wrapped in the finest gold
against the dark coal of the world.

You are a masterpiece,
each curve of your body drawn precisely,
like the goddesses above used the finest tipped brush.
A new sketch, a new scar, a new mark.
The summer sky was used to paint those eyes,
purest of white to fill in your lines.

You are a corset.
A piece of tight spandex used to hold your biological self in,
constrict your gentle breath.
Holding together the shattered pieces of your being,
because you would rather crush your ribs than your dreams.

Your voice is music.
A lyrical tune that winds around my ears,
better than any song produced.
It reduces me to a shaky voice,
leaving not a space for a trace of sorrow.

You are Eliott.
Palms of honey willing to hold thorns.
I have dragged you from paralyzing fear, realizing that you prioritized the negative.
My muse,
a fuse I use to power through what is known as existing.
You sew together my broken pieces,
with every slow needle stroke you fix my angst.
Five hours, one state line
never before
have two people been so far,
yet so close.