You are the boy-hood
That my girl-hood desires.
We are a true-love story that may very well
never transpire.

For years, under my nose
I know you've always been.
But when I discover your moss
growing under my stone
You turn right back over again.

Oh how I long to press my cheek to your velvet
curling sweet, dark and cold,
while fingers pine for mutual warmth;
An attempt at what the future could hold.

Still soundlessly honey drips, sticks
between your silent speaking eyes and my dry lips.
The perfect spaces where forbidden fruit grows
inevitably decays--look, darling --
Our branches have welcomed the caws of the crow.