Johnny Weir, I hope

hopehopehope
you're over 18
or I'll have to rethink
a lot of hypothetical scenarios
involving you,
me,
sparkly fringed outfits
and a hella lot of ice
It's always wise to check, you see.
Just to confirm that I
was not initially attracted to you
because I felt your age
was questionable
and potentially jailbait-worthy.
Rather, it was
your cheekbones, which I feel
would serve as adequate replacements,
should you forget your skates.
Possibly limiting
to your repertoire, I realise,
but you get my point.
It was also your hair, boot-black
and unruly. Your lycra unitard,
I can't deny, played a large part.
You reminded me
of a young David Bowie.
(Not too young, mind! Around Ziggy.)
I'm lying, of course. What sucked me in
was the tale told of the single red glove
you named Camille and used to wear
while spraying ice, triple toe-loops
and pirouettes scything air. Of how
you used to blame her for your mistakes.
How your rivals still call you "Johnny Weird"
(the wags)
and the commentators talk about you
like you're an 80 year old art installation
though you look 18
and leap like a shot fawn.