I plan my days around pathway crossings.
I plan my nights around breathy sounds in the dark.
I want to scratch my name into his skin
in bold uneven letters
like carving possession into the surface of a desk,
or a tree on our playground.
I want him to wear my scent like cheap cologne,
the impressions of my teeth on his thighs.
I hear my name in all his love songs,
sometimes in a melody that I am sure he stole
from my own head.
His poems are almost always
about my eyes.
I stand under his window and wait for Spring
when he will open the blinds to find me there
bleeding art in his own image.