Where Is He When He Gets Home?

He writhes in the water.

He who only lasted a second.

He rides to and fro from the waves.

His body is firm

His body is mine

What would he be doing.

How would he be.

How would I find him in the morning?

Would his arms be over his head 

Or would his face be pressed into the pillow.

Would he live life the way it’s supposed to be. 

Would I think like him.

His character would seem like him and the way he kept things.

His handwriting is just right.

So much of him seems to be better than me.

His shoulders are down and back.

His chest is flat.

His arms jump so quickly.

The bottom of his shorts go way past his knees.

Always someone to look at;

Something to say

As long as you can spend a year:

A different scale of secrets.

You don’t know what I can say about you.

Tinting turning my vision red, yellow, green, and blue.

Don’t make me turn around.


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