Butter and titanium

He laughs like a kid who never learned
to be ashamed of how loud joy can get,
and it hits the room first…
before his shoulders,
careless and certain
like a man who knows his worth.

He makes pasta the way sinners pray:
too much butter,
too much parmesan,
no apology.
The noodles slick and shining,
like he’s daring the world
to call pleasure a weakness.

He cuts his own hair
over the sink
with those big hands…
hands that can build a whole day
out of stubbornness,
hands that can’t seem to wash
a mason jar
without leaving a little cloudy sermon
at the bottom.

When he rows
his skin takes on that sheen…
that working-man gloss,
like the body’s telling the truth
without using words.
On the bike he turns into a machine
that still breathes,
still sweats,
still looks human
even when he’s riding numbers
most men would call inhuman.
Top sliver of a percent,
assault bike,
heart pounding like a bouncer
at the door of a better life.

And then there’s his apartment:
Jewish heritage in his bones…
no bar mitzvah, no religion,
just a history that stuck.
Indian icons on the shelves, artifacts…
not faith, not begging,
just the map of a man
who’s survived enough nights
to collect meaning
the way other people collect mementos.

He pours martinis
like he’s done it in smoke-filled rooms
for strangers who tip too much
and talk too little.
Sidecars, too…
steady hands,
liquor clean and cold,
as if control can be measured
in ounces.

He’s known riches, poverty too
and shrugs at both
like they’re weather.
He lived ascetic for years,
tight-lipped with his wants,
as if wanting was how you got robbed.

And somehow,
this same man…
titanium body,
steel routine,
king of his own pulse…
gets a small cut on his hand
and turns gentle as a confession.
Needs to be kissed carefully,
like pain is a private thing
he’s letting me hold.

In bed he’s all control,
outside it too…
a man who keeps his world
buttoned up,
expensive clothes, clean lines,
then dog hair everywhere,
like he couldn’t care less
what sticks to him…
creases sharp,
eyes steady,
like he’s always counting exits.

But when he kisses me…
it’s soft,
buttery,
the kind of kiss
that ruins you for lesser bread.
The kind that says
“I could leave”
but doesn’t.

And his laugh…
Jesus, that laugh…
I love him when it breaks out of him.
I love him and I fall again,
no dignity left in me,
no warning,
like gravity finally remembered
where I live.

And when the phone doesn’t ring
the room gets stingy.
won’t give me warmth,
won’t give me mercy,
my mind chewing the same empty spot
until it bruises.

I pine for him the way a cheap motel sign pines
for its missing letters…
still buzzing, still trying,
spelling nothing right.
Not proud.
Not pretty.
Just honest…
and yes, miserable.

Because he finally let himself be loved…
by me…
and now I’m stuck
waiting for that boyish laugh
to crash through the door again
and make the whole godforsaken world
feel worth it again.