When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.

When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.

When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.

When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.

When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.