How to Learn Another Language (Simplified and Romanticized) 

Still, I write cliché poems
For his true words unthought and unspoken
A linguistic reason to reason, if you will
Still, his still waters run deep
I want to sow you like a seed, so you seep into id
He's mine yet you remain hermetic 

Let's start with the eyes
I see... you unfolding different lights
These ears hear... you uttering different fears
This nose smells... different heavens and hells
On our tongues twisting... different bee-stung blistering tastes of mouthful lip syncing
In search of [skinship and sipping-kissing kitsch]'s antecedent, our kinship pronouns pronounce us different
Bore me with dullest morphemes, wound me from behind with unpredictable morphosyntax's tactics, hung me half-dead again with morphomic morphines
Then you, somehow, happen to me, like how he bore down on me, wound down with me, hung onto me, even when I was at my most wiped out, wow... 

At last an atlas!
As in more than just an alphabet, more than just an intelligible madness
I long to list, all the longest listless ness-es, of senses
That're long lost and lonely, in the derangement of translation:
Что-то живёт за пределами all verb aspects. Something, a conundrum tốt gỗ đến mức it intoxicates bọn mọt sách. Something first becomes where ك و ن takes root. Something's geboren from Azathoth's subjunctive moods. Sums that sum us semantics up. 

In the Voynich script.
It's always been depicted, an essence flowing in leaf vein patterns which grants divine bliss. To lovers who return to Brocéliande's valley and mist (Voilà!)
On top of the universe.
Bursts a trysting trunk of rendezvous that lifts us up between the Scorpio-Orion cusp. Its bark callused from wearing divine laurel wreaths of our love (Εὕρηκα!)
Corrosive crimson sap.
One of Pomona's cheeky traps waiting since the fall of Rome to coat biblically bittersweet berries like morass. Once they're bruised and brash (Che scena!)
Velvety ivy vines.
Weepin' in their sleep during the charcoal-charring of silver branches cartwheeling in bloody fire. Down to our communal cries for a new life. (Mo ghrá!)
Runes running roused.
Around the Yggdrasil's rings of realities, they're soon to be carved on us hungry hounds. Urðr wyrd wish from her well that our growling howls to come about and echo loud (Gef mér runa!) 

There's not much left for me to say, beneath your wordy wood and shady shades
The way you smother
Suckle-mother me wee boa-boa-boeoui back into illiterate infancy with your humbling HÄHs of a childless father 

If I'm destined to be non-native, let me steal like great artists
I am his, you are him, yet we all IS another
Just another grammatical gender
However, to be gay or not, well, like it or not, I'm already gay
Because you're a person. A raison d'être.