His curls are wild constellations,
Spun from midnight’s gentle hand.
Shadowed silk that sways like whispers,
Soft as tides upon the sand.
His touch turns silence into stories,
Ink that lingers, never fades.
Thoughts unravel, deep and endless,
Like the sun in autumn’s haze.
His eyes — windows kissed by fate,
Holding worlds that hesitate.
Depths of sorrow, sparks of sun,
A silent tale, forever spun.
And when he laughs — the heavens sigh,
Nine white stars align in bliss.
A dimple deep, a trace of mist.
A busy Duke — his hours are Christ,
And our zeptosecond lost in air — like this bliss.
