Letter To My Young Lover
If this letter
should ever reach you,
I'll be surprised.
It reveals too much.
It bares my soul,
and I fear that I may come out
damaged.
I fear that in my tiredness
(due to lack of sleep)
I may speak too much.
What bond we share
from that early age, has only
strengthened.
And if it has not strengthened
(for that is my perception only)
it might have changed
for the better.
We find ourselves
more than friends;
we find out bodies drawn together
(like bears to honey)
and our hearts beat with more
than simple fondness.
Dare I utter that word?
The word of which men flee
and I thought to scorn
at such a young age?
May it be... love?
It makes sense in my eyes
that I would love
my oldest remaining childhood friend.
Mature now, in mind and body;
with no more chubby cheeks
and now sporting stubble
that I crave to feel upon my softer skin.
What men I have met (seems to be singular)
who devote their lives
to protect that which they leave
behind.
Eighteen and ready
for arms.
I dread the thought of your departure,
but more so your return
clad in oak and velvet.
But I hold on tight,
to that single thought that identifies
you as my match:
the children that would welcome
their daddy home at the end of each day.
I would have your children.
I would bear your babies.
Perhaps three or four
with my eyes
and your hair.
I wait for that day, when our souls shall intertwine
and fill each other,
and in my verdant womb,
love shall nourish our family.
Perhaps we can give our son
the name of his father:
My true love,
and the best man I have ever known.
Always and Forever,
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