Rex In The City

he was the one, the perfect one.
the one who i wanted him to be.
the imperfections were perfect.
the madness and the strength,
the scars which never explained the tenderness.
or the touch that never sufficed his he spirit.

the perfect voice, which cannot sing;
his stupid narcissism, thinking for someone else.
the perfect intensity that can never be held.
in the anger and in the vain look,
in even the devils smile and the saintly innocence,

he was the one the perfect one,
with poetry written on him,
ones i could trace out with my fingers
running all over him, and beneathe,
almost in his blood,
playing in his head over and over,
one i could hear if i put my head on his chest,
playing with his heartbeat...

the perfect laughs that could be laughed,
on evenings spent on random thoughts
on finding perfectness in imperfections.
on passions unexplored,
on unexplored passions.
on childish fetishes
of cherries and chocolates
and of witty remarks.
on running wild, untamed..
on holding back and taking it slow.
instinctively.
in the blind