I have watched you for a long time now. Electrified by the incomprehensible myriad revisions of your identity. Seduced by color and form dancing across your face and body, telling me another story of your wonder-filled world. Your skin glows hot and sticky in your photos, drawing from my soul things that were hidden far and in dark. Stopping me in full stride to pick you up off the street to glance at your face once again, I stare over and over till I feel like I am in hell on earth. Drawing me out, enough to distract me from alcohol-saturated lust once when I saw your face set atop a vintage fridge. Distracting me, your face printed three times on your retrospective’s postcard, which is cleverly altered and folded three times with one side facing a rear view mirror. Set ablaze by the subtle variations of your mouth and the possibility of seeing your lips move as they speak to me. I am lost in your shoulder’s defiant pose that tells me I could be you if only I tried, and in so being having the courage to be defiant to it all.