If you ever lifted stoner eyes
to catch the swank of a star
in the azure vaults leading to paradise,
and hoped it wouldn't fleet
to another party in the cosmos
where the men have enough
of a spine to reach for it—

then you'd understand
what it means to adore you;
but life has made me a funny young man,
and I don't know how to boldly transmute
my thoughts into cosmic tongue as to
draw you in the gravitational pulls of my affection

just so I can enjoy the way you polish
my sable tresses in an effortless manner,
all the while hoping that consecrating
your stateliness would entice you
to indulge in the leisure of orbiting
around my galaxy, branding my waiting palms
with the heat of your open, fiery hands

except I am petrified of being misunderstood,
and it can leave a man fumbling over his words
when he fears that—in fawning over stars like you—
he would only be carelessly scaring you off
with egocentric dreams.

and I am sorry that I wait until the very last minute
to grow the backbone it takes to shorten the distance
between our smiles and energy—when all I want is a night
to pick you out of every constellation, and know
that you will respond to my inviting gestures
with a beaming smile and say:

“I know you don't got much—
but there's something about
how you're looking out for me—
and I'd like to stick around for a while.”