He was a sight to see, standing
there with his tattered sleeve blowing
ever so slightly in the winter breeze.
And he knew I was watching him,
from the tree where our lunch and
books lay, those beautiful lines of
Whitman he read to me, balancing on
the naked roots of the oak giant.

I knew he saw me once or twice,
but there was something mysterious
about this one, he was like a well
kept secret, a whisper hidden behind
my back for years, making him
somewhat untouchable, unrequited.
But I had a few tricks up my sleeve
as well, oh, he didn’t know what would
hit him, and I didn’t just nudge him,
I knocked that boy clean off his feet.

I am a sight to behold, a force to be
reckoned with, oh yes, he had met his match.
For the words of Whitman that dangled
delicately off his thick tongue were
matched by my perfectly recited lines of Keats,
and they danced so pleasantly in my mouth,
he couldn’t keep his eyes off the way my lips moved.
We fell in love over words, letters
spilling out of our mouths, and the
memorized lines of history that had
become tattooed in our minds, we
watched the sun rise each humid
morning simply reciting poetry t
through out sinful smiles.

It took a while to notice the love
that grew between our conversations,
but when I realized it, it was almost as if
I couldn’t imagine a life without his
beautiful mind resting next to mine.
And as he stood there, feeding the ducks
by the pond, I watched him and the way
the sun danced across his skin, thinking
the sweetest of words that has ever
escaped his lips, was the sound
of him whispering my name.