I think about the possibility of our meeting.
What would we talk about? He is slow at giving
me details about his life and I don’t understand
what that means. Of course, I do the same, only
in my poems do I feel comfortable enough to talk.
I’d like to see him smile, brush my arm
against his and feel a tingle, listen to him laugh.
I’ll probably never go see him, it’s too far, my medication
might be difficult to get, and I don’t have the money.
He’ll never come here. But I do wish someday
he would get the nerve to start calling me his, boyfriend.