Let it

Modern art museum - Munich
Reaching to touch him is like offering my hand to the face of a tiger. His skin, the skin that full of life, trembling and rippling, and I dance my fingers over his ribs, imagining that they are instead stripes.
It is dangerous and exhilarating. The moment of contact is indescribable, like the crack of illumination that breathes over the horizon at the instant dawn rises. 
When he turn his face to me, I feel as if I should hide mine in response, buried in the crook of his elbow, where his cold blood flows so close to the surface. It is too bright a light, too strong a sun. I recoil and retreat ever so slightly into the cave of my feelings that are too dense to decipher. I pick at them and sort then out as a bone collector does. Here is a scapula, my intention to wrap my body around his; here is a calcaneus - my longing to walk beside him; here is a sternum - my desire to give my heart over to him. I sift through my heavy thoughts, feeling the calcium in the ridges of each piece of what draws me to him. But he call me from my sanctuary, and I silently scamper to the doorway, hesitant and hovering. He beckon and I reach out again, hand faintly shaking as it comes close to his smile and the teeth within it.