I love the way he types and the way he uses punctuation in a form that makes it so I can read everything in his voice.
and when we talk he leaves his walking stick at home, he keeps his coat off. the last one had his hood up before i even opened my mouth.
he is superior, he is mature in the childlike sense; he wants to be so. I want to believe that he is.
a long time has passed since I've written a poem about anyone else but that last one. you can't really call this a poem, though. it's more of a disorganized string of thoughts. it is a compilation of my strong but contradicting feelings for a person who I was warned would want to be more than an stranger, more than an acquaintance, more than a friend. but I don't like warnings, I never have. I decided to make my own decisions and in doing so created my own problems.
He runs to help me in shoes that are too big, probably his father's. I have no expectations and no inhibitions; he brings me a band-aid and I love him back, until the last wave of jovial companionship passes.