I am a little nasty

Milk skinned youth
wrapped in a your white towel
a lonely wisp of hair
in the dip of your chest.

I saw you through a window,
out the corner of my eye.
Gustav von Aschenbach
and his buttery Tadzio.

Tilt your chin
far away boy
take a picture
send it to me.

I could spend an afternoon
roving over your body –
in shadows and suede.

Creamy you and rosy me
churned into a sweet pastiche
of flower flavored butter.

But my longing is meant for rot
and you are someone else’s draught

I’m all grown over
by sickly green moss.