He was all slapped red cheeks
and too short jeans.
I kissed him until his mother came home
and laughed at our backwards sweaters
and lack of breath.
He was all “pick you up at eight”,
see him at ten.
Loving him was a wait -
waiting for his car to pull up,
waiting for his call,
waiting for him to feel the same.
I thought he was saying “I love you too”
when he talked about knee highs and
his parents going out of town and
no one ever driving by the field by his house,
but all he was saying was
“I want to fuck you.”
He was all innocent curls and ’60s rock -
a mama’s boy that had not outgrown rebellion.
My thighs were another way to stick it to his parents
who, upon seeing us sucking the marrow out of each other,
winked and presented me with my very own
“daughter in law” nickname.
The poor boy.
The last thing he’d wanted was the hickey
I left on his neck to spell “forever.”
He was all timid shakes and coffee breaks
with never a penny in his pocket.
I shared my cup of frozen yogurt with him
in return for space in his bed.
A season with him was a hot period of
drunken insomnia and game shows.
Beautiful and full of late night loneliness,
but sad, so sad.
That boy spent hours staring at the sky,
willing himself not to cry.
His last text read:
The birds may know about the heaven
we look for with ladders,
but I’ll never know unless I jump.
I am all scars and broken parts,
a collapsed choo choo train that ran out
of steam months ago, but
somehow keeps chugging along
to toot my horn at boys on the street,
though my poor little heart tells me
it can’t bear the weight of yet
Choo choo, I say.
If you’re the boy pulling
feathers out of your spine,
I’ve been looking for you.