Let me love this as it is
now, bare beginning,
weak-kneed new and wanting.
To give you back your t-shirt,
from my room
to your unexplored mind,
we'd have to cross again.
And I'd have to find your lips
because of your smile,
and then have to wait for the next call.

It's the others that make me think
about it, or so I think.
They tell me from their firm roots
that definition is good,
and I should order you nakedness for
more weeks than those left.
They stood on roses from their beginnings,
marking Hallmark ideas that I feel guilty
to have never possessed.
I fear your taste would leave if I even asked.
I fear it has left already.

Your t-shirt is waiting
and I can't help picking it up
and dropping.
My mind is saying that it's the wrong season
for a boy like you to make a feeling
this good.
A feeling this good lacks the definition I want to give,
they want to give
to forget about it for a while.