I may not know about the people on your shelves and may not have interesting answers to surrealism and impressionism, nor do I have the best quick-wit answers to, “What mischief have you been up to?,” which you asked twice.
 
I keep every message you sent, remember every word you uttered, recognise every sigh you heave and the smell of your morning breath, your eyes and nose.
 
I am the insignificant one you approach when you have a boner.
 
I quench your sexual urge and I am the one you run to should you need a pacifier. You call upon me knowing I will inevitably be there.
 
I align your bedsheets and make neat your pillows.
 
I wished you luck and congratulated you for getting the job. I was there.
 
I am the one you “Come, Boy” at the witching hour and the one you “Shoo” at 6 o’clock in the morning.
 
I studied you and learnt about your interest with pen and paper.
 
I ask him to sing, and when he croaks I stand to listen for I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in.
 
I am the one thinking for him and know I am young and immature and should not expose any display of emotion because I am not right for him. Not yet.
 
I have learnt to love chivalry though I know I have yet to come on terms with it. “You” or “him”, they are all the same because you come in one.
 
I have learnt to be there no matter how painful it is.
 
I stroke you till you sleep, and hum even when my soul begs to rest.
 
I claim that you make me happy when I know my existence you care nuts for. So now, tell me more about nuts.
 
I listen to your French whore-like whining when you need a lingering presence.
 
I am the new disc played on the rusty gramophone of your choice.
 
I am the clown you had fun with, and the show is over but I am still keeping awake.
 
You have become the habit I can’t seem to break free from.
 
You beckon me like a dog and I wag my tail in recognition of my master.
 
I am the fifty-cent ride one puts a child on to have 3 minutes of peace.