His curls fall over his face. slowly. softly. New curls that I didn't see behind the rugged hair he used to have. The hair on his face has disappeared. There's fresh skin where it used to be. Fresh. Skin.
Curls and fresh skin that I refused to acknowledge until they were present. They are now. Present, that is. Present and fascinating.
I wonder how his hands are. Supple maybe? Soft and supple? Hard and fast? Long and slender like that of an artist or harsh but soft like his? I love hands. They define future possibilities starkly.

I feel like I'm writing something I must call Passions or Desires.

He moves his curls with his fingers. I can't decide what to obssess over- the fingers or the curls. Slowly behind his ear, where they refuse to stay. Falling again over his face. Again.The boy that becomes beautiful by refusing to visit his barber.
A fight could do it. But, that'd be unfair. Or overdone. To touch those curls. And move it behind the ears where they refuse to stay.

Fingers that write.
Fingers that fall.
Fingers hold the hair
that look like they could crawl

like worms in a plate.
Worms that fascinate
with movements and walks
that make-up for no talks.