His Skin

Sir, like a wilting flower, sits by a static windowsill, watching passerby without notice"though, with large, fond hands; fond of touch, and of a violent elegance.  Boy, bring me a drink, but in his eyes, there is a sea without shore, a knowing of salvation lost.

Speckled hands, an inversion of his, with valleys where mountains loom, rivers where roads start and then end.  

Boy, akin to fawn:  strong and sharp, but blunt in his tastes and therefore in possession of feckless hands.  Glass is dropped, and"

Pleasure is violent as boy's delicate features flare charismatically, a lion biding its time in the face of man, a tide.

Inevitable.

As it crashes, salt washes away all trace of blood"stasis.

"Father, you are no sir."  

And he is no boy; no longer.

Bottle fixed in a set of stoic hands"in the line of a pair of fatalistic eyes"the ocean does not tear, for the man, with a steady beating heart, does not waver this time.

"Sir."

"Son."