I meant for you to think about it
on the next train-ride home
how I would have said it
if I illustrated how remedies
for a lonely Tuesday evening
come in the way you wake
the little hairs in my ear
through transmission towers and
soft-breathed cues.

but my moxie doesn't come
in a big enough wrench, so I remain
wherever (if ever) I operate
in the mechanics behind your smile,
at least cherishing the reassurance
in seeing that you get to know
the best parts about your happiest days
(because it was long overdue.)

and as I do, I mean to
so that you could see
within the inarticulate man
that where I adore you,
I instead let your feet
take you as you please,

knowing better than I let up
that I meant to say I don't really
have any plans for the summer,
but I'd rather be sitting on your stoop when
June rolls along and my feet are
twenty-two years exhausted,

and my heart another year swollen
from hearing how you say my name
and keeping it a secret between me
and my fear that it is not
how you intend to say it.