"Am I just a boy?" you asked,
after words were said and saliva shared,
as I sat up and took a sea-to-sky drink
from your irises.
"No," I said, reaching for my paper--
the only thing that my fingers seem to
itch with recognition for (aside from the pen).
My tounge licked teeth
that aren't yours
in stiffness--
from the open-mouthed way
I sleep at night.
I tried to think of what to tell you,
to convince you that
you are anything
but 'just a boy.'
"You are a fresh set of words,"
I said, and fingertips pinched shoulders
in a way that begged
for something much more secure than ink.
Something I'm unable to give.
Author notes
I liked this better when it was thrown down on paper, without form. But let me know what you think.
Written October 9th, 2005
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