The CD on my player skips.
Its reminiscent of your song.
You know, the one you beatboxed just for me.
There have been five year olds with more maturity than you,
but I smile at everything you do.
You casually bent over, that sly smile blessing your face
with more grandeur,
falling out of your skinny jeans, asking me,
"Are my boxers sticking out?"
One should be able to roll their eyes,
Perhaps heave an exasperated sigh.
I let a familiar smile caress my lips.

You straighten your hair and I find that I don't even care.
Those old moccasins with the hole.
When I see you, the frame freezes in my head.
Tucked into the photo album of my mind,
saved there maybe, for some time when you aren't so close.
This connection comes from too many places.
You make my head spin and turn me into a giggling child
again.
I love you for it.

If you took French I'd tell you,
"Tu est tres drole."
And if you smirked at me, I fear I'd embarrass myself even
more by blurting out,
"Your drawings are pretty."
Speaking out on my sincerities pulls me in deeper.
Deeper in something I shouldn't have even dwelled upon in
the first place.

But, stud, take a hint or get a clue.
I'm only me when I'm with you.