Golden Boy

Oh, Golden Boy.

Memories of you.

Your words.

The scent of you.

Your fucking gorgeous, gleaming, glittering smile.

You’re keeping me up, keeping me from sleep, keeping me from moving on.

You’re in my dreams and you’re being you and you’re talking to me but I’m not listening because I’m too busy just staring at you.

It’s your smile that I remember best, of course. The dimples and the straight teeth and the brilliant whiteness.

You’re a poster kid, a boy that’s in commercials, promoting milk and telling kids to avoid steroids and being every mother’s dream.

That’s you, Golden Boy, that’s you.

I don’t remember your hands on me, so you must not’ve touched me, because I know I’d remember, but I remember touching you. I remember my hands on your chest and your arms, twisting you and turning you, making up excuses to just feel your skin beneath my palms.

I remember your voice. Your laugh. You saying my name. You laughing at what I said.

I remember a lot of things, Golden Boy.

All I’m wondering, though, is if you remember me too?