His Dishwasher Hands

I met a boy,
once,
who captivated me.

His long
mahogany
hair
was always slicked like silk
into a band
at the nape of his neck.

He wore black
and walked with a swagger,
the hem of his trench-coat
reaching past his knees.

He reminded me
of the vampire Lestat
and he had a habit
of blushing
when I caught him off guard.

He was a musician
in the making,
maybe,
or a poet
or a surgeon-to-be,
but you'd never tell
because he had a dishwasher's rough hands.

And maybe I didn't know him well,
but I know he had cornflower blue eyes
the likes of which you could swim in
and his green work shirt
was always molded to his stick-figure skin.

I met a boy,
once,
and the tilt of his head
and the opaque hue of his skin
inspired me.

And I let him go.