This Post Is About You

I want you to know that I'm not thinking about you.
I'm not thinking about your limbs or the contour of your
jawline.
I'm wary of the smell of your flesh,
of the muscles in your chest. 
I'm not thinking of you at all,
but you see,
You're the only one who knew I never wear gold
and that I ironed your goddamn shirts late at night for you etc. etc. etc.
What I'm really meaning to say is, look,
I'm through.
And I'd really appreciate it if you
would stop giving me your marble stare
and please, enough with your chin
scuffing the tip of your shoulder,
because it's just--
I just,
I would like you to keep my lungs intact
because I sort of really need them for some other boy.