You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attack or vigorous **** to **** action, or maybe no action at all, but still fearing he will suddenly leave you out of realization that he and we are becoming exactly what we set out to destroy in a heteronormative scandalized relationship through secrets and shredded library books, scraps of meaningful meaningless poems of love or sarcastic deceit, or for no reason he packs a lunch for you, or picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park, or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street that faintly smelled like you after you got home from whatever train stop entertainment you often researched. And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend in lost Chicago, or Seattle. Mile high clubs, train stops, never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison, at least that is what he would always tell you. Then soon after the fourth weekend away and he painted his nails black and started listening to reggae while wearing sandals that exposed his feet and souls to the world, ****** skin, pale and vain, untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals and strict converse only policy he made up for himself in fifth grade after joining his first band named, 'the roadies', 'the pits', 'the sirs', or some other preteen boy band name like that. And finally he leaves you the same week you two were suppose to fly back to your hometown to visit your family and your teenage year friends, half of which are married or engaged or pregnant, or something of the sort, and the other half are still puking up yesterday's gas station sushi lunch break, 9-5, because all they do is go home and drink or go out and smoke or if they're trying to be super ****** they might hunt for a ****** needle, a freshly ****** needle, but really any old ***** would do.