In/tactile

In no bleeds
of blue on sheets
in no carves
of his name
he is
rather, in caress form.

Gists of him,
left to hunt
leading to
his seat, his musk
pervading the room

And if you space
his space to you,
a palpable noise
resides,
to clamour and cut
perhaps,
to abide,
it prays:
lay pristine,
still as him.