For Boys Still Mastering the Wild Game of Love

Our mouths don't tell boys Iike us how to play hide-and-seek under the shades of valentino love when we're just toddlers of roses mastering the wild game of love, and song of songs from Solomon's verses whose megaphone had led to the altar lyrical rappers and love therapist. We don't tell boys Iike us that love is as simple as ABC or 123 rather a transaction field where we still find it difficult to keep dealings- or rather pronounce the phonetics /eì/, /kju:/, /ju:/, /æks/ when L is /el/ O is /âu/ V is /vi:/ E is /i:/. This love is crazy! We don't remind boys Iike us to be masculine enough on adventures to the mountainous sea-gods like Bowman sketching algorithm and skulduggery; and fishermen's netts hook in the shallow waters yapping fishes inside love-hole. Boys Iike us aren't mad. We don't tell boys Iike us to be far from maidens that invade the gate of their heart and we don't remind them how to compose a love letter— Boys should be the architect of her house. But for boys Iike us we find comfort on our poems and books—holy books the arithmetic, the equations, the formulas that had line up into a single file: in its unsolved riddles giving room for the brain to do manual labor. And when boys like us are done being the adventures of our bliss, we sow love in our poems that will leave memories in seventh heaven because boys Iike us are flesh and bones.