I want to hug you in a snowsuit.
I want to hug you naked and blindfolded, until neither of us can tell whose arms are whose.
I want to hug you in an open field, I want to hug you in an apocalypse. Is that so wrong?
I want you to touch my hair, even by accident, or pat my arm.
I want you to open your arms and just stand there silent, while I funnel out this overwhelming love I have for you. I want to hug you. Please? For me?
One day I’ll tell you that I will love you till I become a child again, like that poem about love after death in the realm of the universe… you’ve never heard it, but I wish you would.
I listened to it that night when I was high at that party and you were not, because you’re too good for that kind of thing. I, however, am still ashamed.
I love the crazy faces you make, the wild laughs, the quiet thinking. I love that you don’t try to pretend to laugh at my worst jokes; even though I want to entertain you, I love that you are real.
I will even love it if you say things about me to others when I am not there, because it means at least you were thinking about me.
You are the best hugger, and the best carrier, and there is something inside of me that tells me I would be happy being lifted over fences by you for the rest of my life. Just like yesterday. Just like today.
I want to tell you all my secrets–even though I fear your judgment I want you to know where I am and where I’ve been. I want to tell you that I love words, and music, and colors, and ask what you love. I will tell you that I’m a writer, but only past 8pm, and I struggle with the outside world the rest of the time. I want to tell you the reasons of my brain and the feelings of my heart, because that is all I can do until you offer me yours.
Penny for your thoughts, I want to say, but what I really mean is name your price. I don’t have much, but in my mind it’s all for you.
I love you enough to write poetry and essays of your value, volumes on your worth. I know writing them will not draw from you the emotional reciprocation I crave, but I want you to read them anyway…to stumble upon this in some dark corner of the Internet in the late night, lean back in your seat the way you do, and wonder to yourself, “Did she write this about me?”
I want to touch the side of your face and the back of your neck…your hair and your arms and your hands, lithe shape as if God had made them to grasp mine as we ran to the house through the stormy rain of last Friday night.
I want to hold your insulin meter and watch you prick your side below your chest, because I hate blood but I love the way your body works.
The hugs are never long enough,
the room never empty enough,
and the noise never quiet enough for me to finally,
whisper those words into the space between the top of my head
and the tip of your chin:
I love you now.