No instructor
of the comfort
found in evening wear,
or the healthy glow
of sickness,
ever taught me to create
a craving
for sloppy kisses
and sweaty palms
while they visit
the far side of an ocean.
No manufactured mask
is befitting of such a scene.
I over act. I project.
Can you see this,
Way in back?
Observe my longing,
my emptiness
for a boy
I'd rather hold in theory. |
Submission Name: No Title, Quite Yet 
