And now for your regularly scheduled programming [watch me drivel!]:
When I look at him, I am strangely entranced. There are hints of defiance in his eyes and his cheekbones show on special occasions. His hair is strange and lovely, and I wouldn't mind having a go at him. Not many people can get away with a half-shaved head, but he can. His wits are quick and he makes use of the illegal variety of drugs. He uses words I only dream about and whenever I peer into my fantasies, he is there. He's not a movie star. He's someone I've seen. Someone I've touched. Someone whose cigarettes I can identify without asking. He has mischief inside but not everyone sees that. He shares my views. I find him in my head [maybe in my bed?]. He could never understand my favourite songs and I could never understand his, but we make peace. Some see him as nothing more than a big kid, and I see him as someone reminiscent of telephone wires. He fits and he's like a Rose. But what's in a name? Rose will change it often and he will no longer be like her. He tells me what I need to hear and it echoes in my head. Anyone who knows me will understand what this is all about. They will know how I burned for him but never had to tell him how I felt.
Now, extend your hands and tell me: who is the boy?