He's not the guy you write poetry about. 

But his every detail is art.

He walked out of a Michaelangelo--sculpted hands, arms, and back.

His forehead spoke for him: his eyebrows furled, angled, and relaxed.

I watched his lips twitch when he held in his laughs.

I watched the sun kiss his cheekbones.

I watched his jaw hang open when he played the drums, like that snare would make him a singer.

I listened to his feet march on the field like he was onstage.

And I smiled, from a few yard lines away, because his heart was etched into his sticks.

I saw his Adam's apple bounce up and down when he held in his words.

I can't say what you need to hear, he told me.

His shoulders rose to his neck, and then his hands clenched into fists.

Relax, I said.

But my words hit his collarbone. 

They took his breath and spilled to the floor.

He's not the guy you write poetry about. 

But I speak through my pen, as he speaks through his sticks,

so this is everything I couldn't say, too.