My loves like a Poem

My love’s like a poem

I cannot stop reading.

Yesterday, at the beach, or what is taken for one here. A short strip of sand, blue green water, calm, stretching in the distance. A few islands near the horizon.

I was there. So was my lover, and a few hundred other people.

Eye candy.

I do like looking at people. Fun to watch the different faces.

I am gay. I look at men. They are the more interesting half of the species; so unaware of my gaze. When I watch women here, they are soon aware that I am looking. But men…

And Uganda has some beautiful men, I must confess.

I watched them. Some playing beach football, all the glory of their nakedness scantily hid, more to emphasize the present bits, than to hide them. Others, naked, but for briefs and bikinis, splashing around in the water. Men and women, but my gay eye unashamedly followed the glistening males, dark skins rippling and full of abundant, unashamed life.

My eye was drawn to my lover.

He is one beautiful specimen.

Ok, I love the guy, so, I am biased. I know that I am.

But still, with his glowing brown black skin, huge brown eyes, prominent nose, face that is so characteristic of tribal group that it nails him down at sight, he is still a beautiful specimen.

He was looking at all the glorious eye candy around us, and I looked at him. He may not have been the most beautiful, but, I mused, he was the guy that I shared myself with. My lover. My love.

He is extremely jealousy of me showing attention to another man. But, he does not mind looking himself. Something I find hilarious, most of the time. He looks, trying to seem as if he is not, hiding it from me. I look and hide it better, (I think!), but still look.

My eyes were riveted on him. And he caught me looking.

[I cant keep my hands off him. Always touching him. Public and private. And there was something in my eye which made him flash a smile. Love that smile.]

I wrote a couple of lines. Circled them, showed them to him.

Is true.

He is a poem that I cannot, I strangely cannot stop reading.

In school I was known for my reading speed. Trash, I used to read. But useful trash sometimes. It taught me a fluency of the written word that beat most of my mates. But, I could never read something for long. Got distracted, bored, too quickly. I could pick the essence out of a page in a quick scan, and would soon be bored if I had to read it again.

Very different with poetry.

There are some poems that I read, day in, day out, for hours, meditating, thinking, walking. Don’t want to cram them. Don’t want to know them off by heart. I want to touch them, on and on, all the time, to read and think about them, like a gum that I chew on all the time, even when I am doing something else. That’s how much my reading has changed, reading a poem for days, when the first seconds of scan give me the basics.

My love’s a poem that I cannot stop reading.

Well, I don’t want to stop reading this poem.

GayUganda