Words Run on Ice

Damn it.
I want to read Whitman with you
and sleep next to your 
stupidly white-kid scrawny body,
And muss up your hairs
and call you a dweeb
because you like Star Wars.


I want to hear your life story,
because you're fascinating
yet so secretive about
these things from your past.
And I think you can tell
good stories about
these places you've been
and the wonderful things you learned.


I want to figure out how to make you
a goddamn cup of coffee
because I am inept with such things,
and I want us to cook together
and have bouts of rambunctious laughter.
I want you to make more silly, stupid jokes
and I want us to listen to music together
and I want to make you a mix cd
with all the weird songs
that remind me of you.


Maybe we could even 
like,
hold hands
or have physical contact,
though I know it isn't our style,
we don't like touchy-feely-ness.
We ought to be awesome,
together.


Because you're super rad
and I love you waaaaay more
than I think is normally allotted.


Gah.
I love you.
And I want us to do 
things together.
Wonderful things.
Simple things.
Stupid things, even.


Damn it.