If only there were another like him;
He is taken, betrothed (in a way) to another,
with no possibility of revoking his love.
Oh well. 'Tis pity.
He dotes on me, depends on me, vice versa per me.
He doesn’t need me, I don’t need him,
it’s all luxurious friendship--
but sometimes, when he’s asleep on the grass
in the shade, and his hair needs cutting
and curls up around his ears,
I think how sweet he looks.
When he talks and enraptures a
fascinated group, I stutter in my mental
processs and gasp at how it is that
I know him,
and one of few who know most about him.
I am not a romantic lover;
this is a cherished camaraderie,
with the understanding of utter untouchability
and comfort.
It is only when he is most tender,
unconscious, his guard completely down,
that I see his true essence
and unhappily ponder whether
I’ll ever feel the ache for another human
like I felt for him at that time.
Waking him up is waking me up;
a few grapes pelting him, then me,
and we are neither dreaming--
and I am happy, but lonely.