My sweet boy's a quiet one,
quiet next to me, as I shout and scream and laugh obnoxiously
and send him letters written all in capitals
to emphasize not my point, but my magnitude.

He is all quality and no quantity
One little taste of dark chocolate
Sweet and dense and rich and intense;
that's my nutmeg-and-peppermint boy.

I'm his girl
in that he can use me as a mental pillow or an emotional trampoline
and that my possessions are his too
and that he can say anything to me and I'll let it be
without gnawing at it to bring out the imperfection.

When I love someone or he loves someone
we feel it, hold it, know it, respect it
it won't screw us up or make us wonder
because we are lovers of love,
and we know how to say "I love you" maturely and honestly.

And we know how we love each other;
above and beyond the place where it matters that I don't want to kiss him, that he doesn't want me to see his room
So we reach the point where we don't have to define our affections
and an arm around the shoulder means an arm around the shoulder.
Wanting to touch - the greatest compliment of all.

My sweet boy's a joyful one,
giving me things to laugh about while I wrap myself in playfully constructed angst,
reminding me that life's about who we take long car rides with,
and that the way we pass time is what we'll remember.

I'll remember this,
our giggles and inside jokes and hours of meandering conversation,
and euphoria in each others company
reaching so far down, it gets lost in the sea; our soul-deep happiness
Giving me a thesaurus of feelings,
new ways to ice my proverbial cake of joy, joy, joy.