Your boy is a pariah, an outcast, unwanted.
(You don't even want him at this point - no it's beyond that - you need him)
His long fingers are ring-studded and cross-hatched with bloody scrapes.
He is all sharp features and cold skin, face tilted towards the moon,
Exposing that long, pale neck that shifts with every breath.
He is promises of "I'd set the world on fire for you, my love."
And "Forget those diamonds, I'll craft you a necklace of stars."
Your boy is tired, but always awake, restless.
Dark half-moons live under his eyes now,
and he carries them with the same aplomb as an announcer would
Carrying the first place medal to the winning contestant.
He is a tortured mind and a stained-glass soul.
And, oh, despite how hard and unforgiving he must seem
To those looking in from the outside,
You could never forget how soft he becomes when you hold him tight,
How his sharp icicle eyes melt into rain-studded puddles,
And how those broken hands move to hold you tight.
Your boy is the sharp, the seraphic, the supernova.