"I love them in museums, on buses, sitting compact
in trains and on airplanes, running their fingers
through their hair, drunk at parties, stumbling home,
long-limbed and full of awkward grace, boys, yes,
lay on top of me or lay beside me, breathe light into
my ear. I love them angry and confrontational or soft
and philosophical. I want to curl up inside of them,
read their palms, make them pasta and bread
from scratch. I love them kissing me in the backseat
of a taxi cab or alone on the street corner, lost,
trying to find their way home. I love their throats,
their knobby elbows, their spines beneath a soft
cotton shirt. I love them at home, poised readily
over my Keurig, asking which flavor, if I want sugar.
I love their hands in my hair, undoing the braid,
fingernails to my scalp, yes, more, please don’t stop.
I love them in doorways, at the grocery store among
the cereals and unpronounceable cheeses; I love them
at night, pale shadows under lampposts, walking
away from me and into the men they’re going to be."
▼ Kristina Haynes
, “Boys” (via perfect