Before he laughs, his face scrunches up
Sweetly
Like he hasn’t quite made up his mind about anything being worth the smile
Understandably
He’s been making it up as he goes along
Rightfully
He’s asked out on a Saturday night, swept off to an apartment on the 7th floor
Smoothly
His feet are off the ground as he’s picked up from the couch after asking
Is it alright to want to be carried to bed?

Undoubtedly
The start of a love everlasting
Calmly
At 2 am the moon slides the boy’s jeans over his tired legs
Silently

He’s a boy

Jacob Hatfield is a poet writing out of Middle Tennessee. When he’s not sitting on a bench in some random park thinking about writing poetry, he’s staring at the ceiling fan with his dog’s head perched on his legs.