In my clothes, I am yours.
In my jeans, in my oxfords and my t-shirts, I’m yours.
Naked in bed, I’m yours.
My ass is yours, my body’s yours.
When we’ve spent all day here, I’m yours.
When we somehow let both the sunrise and now the sunset see us like this, I’m yours.
When we start to smell stale and I get up for a shower.
When midway through you turn off the lights and join me in it.
When you put your forehead against mine and I stand there under the water rubbing your chest.
When we go straight back to bed, fresh and clean, like we hadn’t just spent all day there, I’m yours.
When you take me in your arms and whisper, “My pussyboi.” And kiss me, I’m yours.
When you’re worried. When you’re sad. When you’re afraid.
When I don’t know how to deal with you when you’re down and I’m mortally afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.
When I just want to be here, there, for you.
When I’m on my iPad reading, then ordering food, and you grab your old camera, I’m yours.
When you squeeze my buttcheek and I hear the sound of this moment being kept forever.
When I find the picture after you developed it and I see that you titled it on the back in a corner, with a black Sharpie, “08/30/14. Pussyboi. Mine.”
I am yours.
As long as you know it, I will be happy.