Slingshot

Slingshot,

named by the pummelling of my heart.

A god walks amongst us,

littering the corners of my paper,

staining the edges blue.

The dent in his jeans at the knee,

a collection from a hearth beyond the mind’s eye,

a repeated image in the stars.

A look behind his thoughts,

a little emotion,

some confusion beyond the byline

and his lashes.

He has a beautiful smile,

whipping my lips to a grin,

casting a blanket to the sky.

I call him celestial,

a phantom,

speech in one thousand colours.

I am shy under his scrutiny,

undone by simplicity,

a member of a silent fan club.

I saw nothing for the fear,

but the glint is in his eye.