You watched from afar as the beautiful Slavic boy
(no older than yourself), shoeless and shirtless
danced beneath the sky; and under the cuffs of
his baggy gray trousers, his feet (sheathed in
fawn gray socks---just slightly sheer) danced,
without regard to those who might not understand.
His long hair, a profusion of soft curls, cascaded
over his bared torso, almost down to his
slender waist. And you felt, as if for the very
first time, that most erotically romantic of moods:
thus he inspired, and you honored him with
your Opus One, the Preludes.
J-Called
[*/+/^]