My muse is not of flesh and blood,
But rather, his skin is woven of starlight,
Stretched tenderly over his cheekbones
And caressed by soft, dark hair.
Like a star, he burns fiery hot and distant,
And I, the observer, hover a few seconds behind.
His beauty is redshifted, a little offbeat.
He strays from the norm on the road less traveled.
Lyrical solar flares hurtle from his fingers
In startling hues of orange and blue.
He shows me his sunspots, the temporary scars,
The magnetism of which merely draw me in further.
Draw me into your infinite orbit,
Your gravity overwhelms my escape velocity.
A distant quasar, a flaming supernova,
An interstellar, nebular Helios.
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