He smiles when the moment is undefended.

His lips remain frozen
in their birdlike pursing
when his skin bathes in sun.

Fortune begs of him
“Tell me what you desire;”
his frown will not break.

His life is drenched in praise,
marinating in compliments,
yet his face remains set.

When he chooses to smile confounds me.

Storms rip the concrete underneath our feet,
and he stands there,
grinning all the while.

As he looks ahead at our future,
a murky, shadowous casm,
his mouth blooms into an upturned crescent.

I am tinged red as I stand before him,
ashamed I can offer him so little when he stares at me,
his Cupid’s bow drawn back.

I am always, always struck.