I want to sit next to him
On hard wooden bleachers
Under summer sky and sun
Short and sacred to Chicago
Feel his jeans brush
Against my leg
And know that later
I will feel his skin on my stomach

I want to sit next to him
At the symphony
On a night when the notes
Sing clear and true
Clasp his hand
As the music climbs to forte
And when the flute aches
With Romantic poetry
Squeeze gently to make him smile