his back carries centuries worth

of stories at the spine, folded

over with the curves of his

muscles, layers of time

immemorial that change how i

understand his story; what

little of it that i do. he is a hard

worker, you can tell by the tan

of his skin. his scars, little marks

of extraordinary texture could

never change my mind of the

sacrifice he's put into his work.

the sweat that trickles down just

another indicator, another piece

of evidence that he is strong.

stronger than the muscle in his

back, stronger than the tongue

in his mouth, his core. his core

is strong, and its the bleeding of

his soul into his physical body.

it captivates me every time i

see him training, or working in

the infirmary, or pulling on and

off his jacket. he's gorgeous. he's

gorgeous at the touch because

he lets me feel all those centuries

worth of stories, all that hard work.

but his ethic is more than hard

work, it is dedication. to what, i am

not sure, because it's more than

what he does, it's what he believes.

who he believes in. god, i wish

that he could carry me on those

broad shoulders, the only things

that his back could dangle from.