When we text I hear your voice
on the screen. I see your smile
elusive and gentle; I can almost
smell your hair fresh from the shower
you take when you arrive each time,
your shampoo by the tub edge.
Once, only once, I opened it
hoping to smell you, but of course
the smell of your hair is more
than anything that simple.
It is the weight of your head
on my shoulder, your arm across me,
your face against me, your body
relaxed in a way I envy. There are
so many ways you have been present
to me, but sweetheart, the past few weeks
your texts checking on me, knowing
I might as well be climbing
the jungle gym at my long-gone school
for all the maturity I have demonstrated,
your texts that never judge or chide
just ask me gently, are you, are you,
being the man you really wish to be?
The answer is, perhaps, sometimes,
when your head rests on my shoulder.
Then, yes, I will start finally becoming.

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