this really isnt a love poem,
Poems of love are never really,
really about any 18 of them.
them boys i used to love,
I loved boys and was so fond of.
of bad something always happened,
it happened weather it was them or me.
me, myself, and i wrote this poem about  one,
one who is not gone,
gone in person, but not from my heart
my heart and I start:
I miss your big hands roaming on my skin.
my skin? I miss your smell.
smell of your breath and sound of your voice
voice soothing over mine.
mine and your warmth could heat the world.
my world was full,
full of, miss.
I miss.