So my book designer died,
John, who consoled me
when my father died
by suggesting I watch
pornography. “God knew
what he was doing
when he gave us wanking,”
he said, and now he is gone,
leaving me to amateurs
halfheartedly creating art
on my computer screen,
naked as the day they were born.
Just up the street
His flammable grin teased
the match that was my teenage tongue
He sensed my curiosity, gave me enough details
to shape him with lies and fiction.
Knowing only his name,
I made him mine, made his eyes green and his father hateful.
I remember purple shorts and a bicycle seat that
inspired envy.
I liked his hair without gel, his shirts sleeveless, thought his
braces were sexy.
I stole his family’s mail once,
with little luck. Just a newspaper and a phone bill.
No clue of who he really was,
so I kept inventing,
inventing my arms as protected habitats for his endangered emotions,
inventing his yen to my yang,
inventing his body on mine in the night, stomach to stomach,
his hand guiding me inside.
Just up the street lived a boy I wanted,
and never had,
so I make his name my password on every e-mail account and pornographic website.
It’s years later and I type his name
more than my own.
© Bryan Borland
