I remember you in the perfume of curing enamel, chalk and Big Chief tablets.
I wanted to carve your initials into the desk more than once, but I'd never admit to it.
They were hooked-together in rows, made of wrought-iron and wood with a hole for a long forgotten inkwell. But more -- much more, I wanted you to carve them with your own hand.
And since I had never seen anyone really dip someone else's pigtails into an inkwell,
I figured to be wanted is even better than wanting.