butterflies in my stomach torment me like a bellyache. because of him. because of me too, of course. two fingernails hurt because i can’t stop biting them. i’m not a teenager anymore. we aren’t, surely. but if some pains need to be felt, then i’m going to be fucked. and it won’t be in the nice way, i assure you that. i like it when he bursts out laughing. when he just smiles. when he moans in my ear while our bodies are pressed, compelled, coerced together. i just haven’t decided yet what to give him for christmas: a pair of levi’s or a diesel sweater. what is happening to me!
i sleep better when he stays the night, usually from saturday into sunday. from friday into saturday too. i prefer saturdays. but i hate sundays when he leaves me. still, i understand the wisdom of distance between sundays and weekends. it is utterly necessary. to recharge, reload. for both of us. he has no idea how my body vibrates at messages like i want to see you right in the middle of the week or past midnight. on a tuesday or a wednesday. he thinks i’m cute. but i desire him the way apollo desired his prince. longing. but he is apollo. summer boy. honey-eyed man.
i don’t know what spell i cast to deserve your gaze. his. i am only a shy gay boy, tiny echo in the world, a know-it-all lost under the weight of my own desires, silently carrying the feverish impulse of the maenads. not manic. just between his legs. ah, his legs. there i lose all sense of time. space too. there i find refuge. and the drugs i need to survive all sundays and his departures, until his return on fridays; or saturdays at 2am, when he calls me to pick him up at the train station. drunk and aroused, attired, carrying me in his arms through the elevator. ah, his arms and biceps! his tongue in mine. of course. it was 2am, and i have no idea what time we fell asleep.
about everything 