"The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you."
― Rainer Maria Rilke

I sit in front of him watching him like the painting that hangs in a dark cornered room of his place, admiring as the sun sets on his face and traces every inch of his perfectly aligned face, highlighting that dark scar under his eye like the water sparkles with the touch of a sunray.

The orange light emitting out of the sun slides slowly as the sun drops, drops to his chest where his beating heart resides. The white of his t-shirt reminds me of the white of the sky before dawn and the sunlight tracing his face reminds me of the pink hue of the sky after dusk.

The movement of his lips register in my head like never to be forgotten, the laughter touches the inside of my heart, waking it from a deep slumber. He doesn't know how I create music from the strings of him still dangling from the insides of my heart.

He has Braille written on him, waiting to be touched and read, when touched with tenderness his beating heart warms my cold hands and the warmth reaches deep within. The wind blows and brushes his hair as though wanting to continue a long-lost conversation.

He turns around and starts walking and his feet with each step reach a mile in my heart. The brown in his eyes turn golden when the faded sunlight enters, he walks away into the darkness with an abundance of light in his body, lighting up the whole darkness. His arms call out for poetry to be written on them, my hands reach out for his to write sonnets on them and serenade them when he walks away.

As the sun sets finally with its last light-emitting, his silhouette appears against the black backdrop. He works his way towards the darkness, clutching the light-tight in his fist. He stops midway, opens his fist to emptiness.

Turns.

There's only darkness now.