To: a Boy

You see,
I have not been entirely honest
with you, or, really, with anyone.
Not in a long time.

The consequence of my being…
disingenuous
is that I have lost myself—
in the worst sense.

I know, practically, little
about who I really am.
And save for in my dreams,
from which I

cannot escape,
my life
seems
to be a sham.

In those dreams, though,
you often come to me.
And when I say often,
I mean always.

I dream of you—
every night. You
have become my discrete
desire for months,

now. I desire to be
near you, to be part of you-
r world. I desire to touch
you. I desire to be

the instigator of your brilliant smile
and to suffer, terminally,
whatever condition
gives the sparkle to your eyes.

I am jealous
of your charm
and enthusiasm.
I long to tap into you-

r confidence and carouse
in this world
so full of misgivings.
I want to love you

in the purest,
most cherished
sense of the word,
and be,

decorously riotously,
a prize that you will,
forever,
treasure.