I wanted to draw myself
so close to your mouth
that your words blew out my eardrums
even though they sounded like
they were being whispered.

I don't know much
about anything,
except for what's right now—
and now is beautiful,
and it hurts,
it tantalizes, and
it soothes, and
it's disturbing;
and I'm living in it,
and I try to come
away from it.
but I always come
back to it—
because now
is all I have—
and it would be greed
to ask for more, and
any man would be daft
to settle for less.

Call me, and tell me you still
catch the sensation of my limbs
tangled around your neck,
and my hair tangled in your fingers,
without having to dream about it;
that you meant to return the favor,
and lull my madness to sleep,
and something said, "why not tonight?"

and it's a thought I've entertained, because
there's something intangible about the way
you let my name slip from your mouth,
and if I could hear you smile when you
feed into silly jokes (that I sometimes
never know how to finish,) with
a sprightly riposte and a laugh—
well, no man would know as charming
of a night song as I would.

so I often smooth out an endless atlas
of all the routes and maxims that would
escort you to the comfort of my being;
and I find myself ready until I remember that
I am guilty of never carrying a compass most days,
and counter every instinctive emotion
with a thought and a doubt, and I keep forgetting
to not travel about with the shaming fear of mistaking
moments of selfishness for those of tenderness.

which explains why I've pinched my tongue
with my teeth every time I think to admit
that getting enough sleep hasn't really done much
since some nights, I am lonely, and being able to let
every tired limb wander and stretch across
the entire bed makes other nights a little tougher.

I swear I don't mean to adore you—but I do,
and I think it would be nice to see you again;
I've been thinking about that most days, too
(because it does sound nice,) but if you didn't know
that was where I was coming from, I'm hoping
on the next chance we get to meet somewhere
in the middle of the lives we zip through so briskly,
that now you do.

you can give me a call, it doesn't have to be soon;
and it's only if you've been thinking about it, only if
you been meaning to catch the sound of my smile
behind an eager hello before you ready your compass
and ask...

“It's been a while, what are you doing next weekend?”

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.”

Chelsea would be yours to rule
by night, and the fools of the bars
would lift their liquored skulls
from every bar top, cheering the anthem
of your glory, from the 13th Step
to Clandestino.

and when we take all of Angel's Share,
I'd follow the resplendence of your
staggering figure along concrete carpets
while the traffic-jam parade
flashed their headlights in praise of
the Urban Royalty and his timid right-hand rebel.

oh, how we are adored! and even if
we are mistaken, what care could we give
when the streets are ours, and every footstep
turned the pavement to gold,
and each mechanical cart propelled us further
in our conquest from terminal to terminal.

I wanted to make you King—
but the Blue Moon in my hand
does not match that of the one that shines,
(nor do I shimmer as it does...)
besides, you already are the King—
all I am is timid and left-handed,
and I'm longing to be adored.

Every wallet I've owned has seen
more dust and identification cards
than an abandoned asylum.

and if I were to measure my wealth,
it would be in three appointment slips,
ninety-two Chinese fortunes,
and a single Press-a-Penny
tucked behind a folded note
documenting symbols from
a dream I had at seventeen.

but if you were to ask me
to measure my worth, I could tell you
that ninety-two fortune cookies had
a lot to say about me, and the penny
reads "Lucky," and lucky I am.

because my heart has more space
in just four chambers than Trump Hotel's
penthouse suites, and my mind
is always at work to keep it running,

and my mouth eagerly waits to offer
conversation over boxed wine,
a laugh for every clever line you speak
in regards to the inconvenience of rainy days,
and a cordial invitation for you
to enjoy any of my four cherry suites
any day of the week, (even when it's sunny.)

oh, could you adore a broke man?
I can't make any reservations,
but my heart is always expanding,
and you don't have to pay any rent
to keep warm.