The inner workings of Eric and his thoughts on the enigmatic, yet totally beautiful Neil McCormick.

You are my poetry. You know that. Fuck, you are my poetry, written so sweet and when I think about you.

Oh.

Well, it means being creative.

I think of slender hands, drawing lines up my skin but you're playing with me. Short, bitten nails, scrape down my back, God you're looking down at me, those eyes, almost closed, still open and watching.

Watching me. I look away, everyone knows those eyes, are a fuckin' trap.

You're like air. I can breathe you in but I can only hold you for a little while before the next exhale.

Your lips brush against mine, they're soft, not thick. They kiss the way you speak, cleverly, like you were born doin' it well, and I can't stop wanting it.

Pure poetic finery. Take off the shirt. Now the pants.

Now, when we look at your slender shape, well, it's like one of those young Greek gods y'know? Soft hair, smooth skin, and when you lie on a bed, it's like you're not wanting to have sex, you define it. All smooth lines, but hard angles over your chest, your abs. You touch yourself, run your fingers over your nipples. I want to be those fingers, I want to take them in my mouth just to prove that they're real, that this is real, that you're beneath me.

And even when you're dressed, sometimes I see your eyes wander. No particular place, they just look out and I can see the cracks. Cracks, million little slivers, where someone hurt you and tried to crudely put the feelings back together. I wanna break you up, fuck you over and then make you miraculously better, because in all stages of transformation, all forms of your mutation, your fucking art.

I love art.

When you smoke, when we get high, your hair is so black I think it's purple. When we're high, you're so fuckin' gorgeous I want to weep.

We're high now, thus our position. You naked, me naked, us fucking.

And when we fuck, every nerve ending is electrified, like lightning on sand. What do they make glass? Yeah, fuckin' glass, man. Shiny, pure, something unexpected. And when you roll your hips up and I slide into you, my eyes roll back and its instant transport to nirvana. Angels, cue heavenly music, hallelujah.

Then we crash down, like someone switched the gravity on the moon. Like Neil fucking Armstrong just sank on the moon, not floated. Like we made a mistake and the weed was a bad idea. You edge away, I edge away like magnets with the same polarity.

I shouldn't have touched you but you're fuckin' poetry. I wanted to read you.