no tengo ya raices,
he volado
de oro en oro,
de pluma a pollen
sin saber volar;
con alas espaciosas
lentas
sobre
la impaciencia

I no longer have roots
I've flown
from gold to gold
from plume to pollen
without knowing how to soar
with slow
huge wings
over
the impatience
~Pablo Neruda, from "El Gran Verano" ("The Great Summer")

He rubs his cheek over Sean's, stubbled with precious flecks of the beard only recently shed from filming far away and now grown again from four months' worth of stolen moments crushed into two and a half days. But that crush has been a dulcet press of gold, piel ambas leche y miel*, natively pale, now rich beneath him, finally beneath him. To linger over that abrading light or the feathery nest of shaved copper snug against his hip or the burnished sunset skin that lies between, he cannot decide. All of it. He's never been able to be still.

*skin both milk and honey