The boys are, in fact, men, and men not, of course, objects. I know there are differences between boys and objects (plenty, numerous, loads). Objects, for example, stay in one place, unless you move them or unless they have wheels. Boys tend to move on their own. An object may weigh more than a boy, depending on the boy and depending on the object. A pillow, for example, is lighter than a boy; a couch, heavier than a boy; a chair may or may not be the same as a boy; I struggle to pick up most boys more than most chairs. A boy is like a chair in that they both have parts that add up to a whole. Boys and chairs have limbs and boys and chairs have spaces to climb on (when you ask them politely) and I like sitting on both boys and chairs. Boys have names and chairs could. People, boys in particular, sometimes name those names. Boys name their cars and their boats and their dicks and their sandwiches. They name the borders they cross and the storms they weather. I understand the allure; sometimes I see a boy or a thing on the side of the road and I think, what an Andy; too bad he or it is already called because I would feel more comfortable with anything else. Lights you can turn on and off unlike boys. Glasses you can break unlike boys. Walls you can paint unlike boys. Ceilings are far away unlike boys. Curtains are drawn and boys are not. Ink might get all over the carpet; boys might get all over the carpet. Boys read books but books don’t read boys. Boys do karaoke and boys have teeth and I have found, from extensive research, that boys are obsessed with burgers, but I cannot speak as to whether burgers are obsessed with boys. I would say probably: no.
I am not looking for the thing when I see it on my shelf: the piece of object that he tugged on over dinner and gifted me at the end of the night. The coarse feeling when I wrap my fingers through it and hold him in my hand.