Fresh man sweat.. the smell of it.. the rides and the damp and the creamy shirt.. to know that it is indeed possible to appreciate a man without the need for it to be entirely toned in sexual language and romance. Is he a muse? I don't think so.. He's like the little bird that visits my window and then chirps so as to get my attention and then, flies away.. for a lingering moment, the bird is all mine.. unlike this man, whom I have no intention to possess.. merely to smell, without touching, not deliberately, the wafts of his fresh man sweat brought to me by the damp winds of a dull afternoon....
the writing on the wall is always blurred.