My mind wanders over the scene that just finished. His body responsive to every touch, swat, lash and sting that came his way. I remember when we first started to play together how he was reserved and acted tough to show me he could take a lot. It took time to convince him I was more interested in breaking his shell not hardening it. I already knew he was a man, a good man and a strong man. When the cracks in his armor started to appear the intensity of our scenes increased. His body started to reach toward me for more. Every sigh, whimper, moan and yell became music to my soul and fuel to my swing. It was his invitation to dig deeper, to claw at the exterior of his shell until his soul was laid bare before us both. Finally the tears started to flow and I knew we hit hidden treasures. It was always his goal...to learn to cry again.
Now, months later he lays in my arms, armor voluntarily left at the door. His words are softer, richer and full of his humanity. He eyes look deeper into my soul and recognize who we are together in this journey. His flesh beaten, tired and abused. His face stained with dry tears. The strength in his surrender to lower his guard, to trust me with the unknown that lives within him; priceless. His soul and spirit revived. He's more beautiful to me now than when we first met.
He carries my marks.
His unfolding beauty shatters my soul.