it is not the hard planes
or shoulders that bear weight

it’s not full lips
or how they press life back into bones

it is not sky eyes
or umber strands against pillow cotton

it’s not a warrior’s arms
or the embrace beneath horizons

it is not the raw timbre
or a deep hum in pleasured press

it’s not large laughter
or reading poetry, lakeside at dusk

it is not patient ears
or philosophy hikes near a bent dawn

it’s not compassion
or the race to forget on battlefield sheets

it is not shared space
or the ache cupped in open palms

it’s not these things
          it is all of them
                      all of him