There are things that I'm not sure of.
But I am sure that you despise being
alone and will do anything not to be.
You hate when things that shouldn't
be romanticized are. You like it when
people see past your ego. You're hard
enough to convince of something so
small, but even then I constantly try
to get you to see that I am sure of the
things you said I wasn't capable of.
I am capable of memorizing your
full name and the date you were born.
I am capable of  keeping it platonic.
But I am not capable of letting you think
I am not capable of knowing you, only
because you are afraid to mean something.

There are tales
that have been spoken
about the ones
who fell
too young
or naive.
Though you know me,
every time we kissed
the color ran off my cheeks.
and so it begins, with a
pounce of a key,
a tale of two, maybe three
lovers who fell too naive:

You speak in such tone
which leaves me in awe.
Every syllable, every line
you enunciate lives
in my own gallery
of things you do that
make me urge to keep.
I graze the side of your face
constantly fiddling away
at the stubble on your jaw,
or the thin strips of wonder
on the top of your skull,
and all I can imagine is
the *Sun.
Naive it may be,
but my Sun boy I
will keep.

(v)        
Yearn /yərn/*

If I want
to tell you something
I'll write it

I want copious amounts of things.
I want to be able to read to you
without the fear of
boring you .
I want to witness the half grown smile
that you carry in the morning
when you just aren't happy.
I want to be able to touch
your skin-
oh your fragile yet strong skin-
when you just come out of the shower.
I want to feel your breath
on the top on my collarbones
when your body is pressed
so tightly against mine.
I want to feel the warmth that reaches
my cold skin
from just one touch from your
hands.
I want to tuck those hands in between
my thighs-in the most *asexual way-,
while I sleep.
I want to press my lips
against the side of your face
when things aren't
so public.
I want to listen to you
complain,
after a long day .
I want to continuously
bicker when you ask me
"What color is the sky?"
only because  I know you'll
come up with some odd
explanation for why I'm not right.
I want nothing,
I need nothing,
I seek for nothing more
than to just want you
and have you want me
in return.

Time has not been stuck, it has just gone by
and now I might have enough
to scatter your skin with a kiss,
and a slight graze.
I have the thought of you, so engraved
this time will be no waste, of memory
to your body.
And if you didn't know,
I never thought of leaving you, no.
Which is why I'm not leaving you,
just being placed away.

I have bloomed, thanks to you,
my boy who I am so intertwined with.
You have taken me to highs, at times
when lows were significant.

I have seen your skin, fresh out of the shower,
I have read to you, without boring you.
You are the bar, no other boy can raise
and I speak to you now,
as my man, who has my all.

As I am placed farther on this map,
know, you'll always be my Sun.

I have told you all you wanted to know,
now I write to discover my inquiries.

(n)        
world /wərld/*

I will continue to write these things
until I have told you all.

I want the world and it's folds.
I want to fight with you, words
to screams to echoes.
I want to cradle my head
swiftly, like a feather,
into the curves of your shoulders
soon after.
I want to continue an ongoing
counterclockwise motion
while we lay our heavy
backs
on the comfort of a
duvet.
I want to appear at your windowpane
at times where the
rain is the
least of your
worries.
I want to gently caress the
stubble which you bloom
in such a careless manner.

I want to find myself
at the side of yours,
every single time,
every single way,
every single moment when I
start to count the times
I've told myself,
that you are the sun,
and I am the moon.
And my charming world
has been found, with its
folds*.

It was eight in the morning
when I woke up last,
the eighth time.
The thoughts pondering
along my thought stream
had been counting the
very things that
could have had the power
to wake me up.

One: Did I forget to lock the door?
Two: Maybe I forgot to turn off the stove.
Three: Did I say "goodnight" to you?
Four: Did you...never mind
Five: I'm kind of missing you right now.
Six: It's cold, where did my warmth go?
Seven: You're not here.
Eight: Your ******* zodiac sign.

Eight things that formed my brain into
the complex shape of an
octagon with little or no struggle.

Though the eighth thought
had given me all I've needed,
all I lacked,
and all I wish I never had.
But everything I never
want to let go.

Your ******* zodiac sign
you're *******
beautiful
on that scale from one to twelve.