Your teeth gently nibble at my thigh and the tender soft skin behind my ear and you
trace down my neck with your nectarine lips;

When I inhale you, you are cool and mysterious like the mornings the sun struggles to rise and you
committed to walking in the park with the vague fear that someone is watching you as your mismatched socks become wet with the dew of the grass. Exhale.

Your eyes weed through my words and expose me. But my secrets are no secret, and my future is only made of dried bones and the repeat button permanently pushed on track 8 of a CD you gave me before.

Yours is colorful and exciting, and you have things you want. You know how to want.

You have friends and people, houses and families, animals and creatures and mountain sunsets in your future. You have laughter and words and art. Paint and learning and stimulation and 70 more years. You have stamps to get in your passport, songs to sing in the shower (hot? cold?)

I am in the kitchen, listening to music I shouldn't be. I know that changing the song may literally save my life, but I do nothing.

It's not fair to let someone so alive love someone like me. Some people don't get to want things, and it's not just or right but, "Hey that's life!" croons the man with the leather coat and droopy shoulders, smelling like cigar smoke and whiskey, holding a sign (Anything Helps) on the street corner. Or was that the police man in the middle of the park, on the walk we took trying to figure out if holding hands still counts as too much love? Who knows?