I have fallen for a man with soft eyes and golden skin,
Black hair and veined hands.
Not for hard muscles and a harder heart,
But for the way red looks on his lips,
How the light dances on his skin,
Shimmering with warmth,
how the air moves his silken shirts.

Broken english never sound so healing as on his tongue.

And I might be called a fool
By passersby in bandwagons,
But I can't help it:
His rosy cheeks and black pearl eyes,
His sharp collarbones,
his delicate wrists, adorned with silver.

Soft eyes and pale skin,
Glittering in the night as he dances;
Look, how the air moves through him.

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