Does He Not Realize...

He flushes beneath the freckles and I have never harbored such hatred for his embarrassment, for its unwelcome coming and its stubborn stay. No other feeling more swiftly silences his lips. Does he not realize how he glows in the early afternoon sun, like an accidental perfection miraculously stumbled upon, and for this the sun shines even brighter, to sing of him?

There is only one thing to do. He insists upon staring at my feet. Therefore, I must make him look into my eyes. His chin-small, easy, tilt. I lean in. (What shame takes away from him, I must give back.)