The scent of sour chamomile
His body close to mine
Nobody cares if he cries
He is the janitor at work
Brown curls and square glasses
I wish to bond
He pulls trash bins
Dirt on his taupe skin
Strong and calm, silent type
No complaints, not a sissy
Troubles he keeps to himself
I want to reach his heart
Mysteriously spicy to me
He sweats alone, cries alone
His radio tunes to hip hop
According to his moods
Wears his jeans straight
I wish I was 21 again
Some say he's a pastor son
Some say he's a single Dad
I know he deserves good
His success means the world
I stay afar, more comfortable
Be careful, Mrs. Robinson