Who cares about Mona Lisa?

He is a piece of art;
unadulterated, even untouchable.
A fragile beauty I've not seen before.

Art tries to be that which
has soul, but falls short
and plays the mirror instead.

This boy, on the other hand,
is a living, breathing specimen
to the world around him.

When his face resides
at the far end of my binoculars,
I see the fine fissures cut into his smile.

When his heart resides
beneath my stethoscope ears,
I hear the ticking of a time bomb.

With one glimpse, I knew
I met my demise. And then I took a second
and a third, and then became Pandora, lovingly.

I want all of his contents; to know the
texture and curve of every stroke. To know
the origin of pain-- or inspiration, as they call it.

So beautiful
he's so beautiful...
and eternally distant, no matter the proximity.

He’ll make a thief of me;
the thief who steals, only to cast the piece
aside for fear of getting caught up in the heist.