I hope its a Saturday.

I would start by waking up before you do
(since I'm always the last one up)
and I'd cook you breakfast in bed.
It seems simple I know, but I'd start early
at, like, 7 am
and cook every kind of pancake and egg I could imagine.
Like eggs in a basket or cinnamon bun pancakes,
or maybe just the buttermilk kind.
I would tap the maple tree out back
and boil up a batch of the sweetest maple syrup
you had ever tasted.
Every time you would taste syrup after this,
you would think of me and this morning.
Then I would cook up all of the bacon I could find
until it turned black and crispy
(too burnt for me, but I know you like it that way).
I'd pull all of the mangoes and oranges and grapefruit out of the fridge,
and use that Jack LaLanne Power Juicer,
you know,
the one that we haven't used since it arrived on our porch.
There will be too much pulp for you,
but you'll drink it anyway.
I would finish up by brewing your favorite coffee-
isn't it that Columbian kind?-
and wake you with the smell wafting through the apartment
(like those Maxwell House commercials).
You would come downstairs wondering what was going on,
and where I was,
since I am never out of bed before you.
And you would see a table covered in food
with me ironing all of your work shirts for the next week.
It would be so **** we'd make love right there,
on the dining room floor
ignoring the food that was quickly becoming too cold to enjoy.

And then I would erase it all
and leave you.

Your words are a sight to behold-
You can inside-me and outside-me
With one simple line

You are a prophet and scholar I see
Words scratched on every surface
Splashing the lifeblood of an inkwell
On the face of fate

Your arms are covered in poetry
Up and down written
Back and forth
Letters roll from your tongue
Squeezing the throat of my inner silence
Taking hostage my thoughts
Pushing and proddding them

I feel as if you are a thousand years old-
And I am just a boy
A curious child searching for meaning in the blue
You let me poke and **** at your words
Picking up a book
Just to read your first page
And lay it aside
Reaching for another

I am not your equal in the least
I know my place as a student of fate
I am your humble servant-
(Although I wrestle constantly  with
Human affections)

How can I be at blame?
You have eyes- full of ancient and knowing light
Your hair is more compelling than an English garden
Full of blooms
Silken strands of summer rays
Cast my heart into shadow
I revel in the shade of your haunting depths
Picking blooms of Nightshade and Oleander
In the mist of your presence
The dew chills me to the bone
In the wake of your departure

I am ****** to a life
Wrapped in your absence
It is so cold in my heart
For the prison of mountains
Will keep you from me

I can only hope that one day
When my body is buried
Roots will curl and swallow me
Crushing the spirit from my bones
So I may wander over the mountains
And watch you rest your legs
As you wait for Aurora's morning kiss