The need to just love him
kills me slowly.
So long I have yearned to simply hold him
in my unsteady arms.
For him,
I would no longer need the cigarette smoke
to inhabit my lungs--
I'd much rather fill my lungs
with him
and feel his soul creep down my throat
down to a place near my heart
where  I would keep him for an eternity.
Oh, for that sweet boy
I'd try to love him more than poetry
but I'd rather turn him in to poetry;
typography that could last much longer
than we would.
I wish to turn him in to the library book
that my forgetful mind would forget
to return;
knowing I would pay all the money in the world
to read your mind forever.