An Undressing (of sorts)

The whole affair was very satisfying, him seeing himself through my eyes

The way he gripped the shameful, half-developed photograph and I knew

He was forcing his eyes open and his hands to be steady

Cast aside were the flaws of himself he wrote into the mirror

Or the way he reminded himself every day that his voice was too much like a woman’s

Or that his shoes projected a portrait of his lack of financial means

Or the idea that the soft parts on the backs of his thighs could be beaten away

With just a little bit more control over his diet

No, he simply saw himself as the jovial flush to his cheeks

And the mischievous curve of his eyelids and the way

His curls got tangled up with one another when he laughed too hard

I let myself admit that I was in love with the freedom of his abandon

These rare snapshots of his wondrous carelessness

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