You are such an awkward young lad.
       Perched upon my bowels,
             dangling your feet into my groin,
                    pressing into my unaccommodating ribcage, 
      studiously carving notes into the lining of my stomach.
  Every lesson learned is a lost sliver of fleshy red.
        Such confusion mars your sweet, pale face 
     as you survey this text of acid and blood,
 your soft, pink tongue desperately searching 
    the secret, wet  corners of your mouth 
                for some clue into your psychoses.
You are living in a world of semicolons and ellipses,
       wanting so badly to create something to call your own
  that everything you touch bursts with the staccato pressure of it,
             pausing unexpectedly, 
                 then dissipating as it floats just out of arm’s length.
  Taught that pleasure must be kept quiet
         because it dwells in such close proximity to pain,
   you tear layer upon layer from your life-ravaged lips,
        curling your toes and scratching silently at my throat
  so as not to disturb the rest of the world beyond 
            the paper-thin bedroom walls. 
It is duly noted that some words are often rendered useless:
    “No” was proven a fallacy by a Professor of Psychology
            on a muggy, sweating April afternoon.
      You had to retake the course,
            being the stubborn student you are,
        this time from a Professor of Shakespeare,
             telling a tale of love with his sneering mouth,
                           a tale of lust with his wandering eyes,
                  and a tale of persistence with his unrelenting hands.
     Yet, I love you because still you search,
 on an infinite quest to finally make a connection.
          You try to coax the sleeping dragon of your breath
                    from its craggy lair, 
                              its unexplained and lengthy hibernation,
                 to come into the light once again and breathe fire,
         scorching unsuspecting witnesses- 
                                                                          leaving a mark.
        You wander the impossibly gray streets,
                 leaning invitingly against  beautifully curved street lamps,
          basking in the enticing glow of art nouveau amber,
                 and call to the sweet young things that pass by
         who do not even glance twice 
                   let alone stop and say “I love you”.
You, my precious boy, 
             are a study in world-weary innocence,
        and I can’t wait for the day 
   when you finally get  your nose out of those books 
              and just live. 




  


    

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