I want to share a bed with you. I want the very incandescence of your body and hair to intertwine among my arms and legs as we drift into an inescapable bliss. Yes, I want to share a bed with you — really, any kind of bed. Even a twin bed, because that would only mean would be forced by the nature of our surroundings to inch closer, bit by bit, until we would fall asleep with my legs and arms wrapped around your beautiful body, and our lips, meeting halfway to interlock and stay that way throughout the night. Honestly, I want to be your little spoon, despite the stigma around it. For me, that would be enough to make me happy.
I want us to wake up, looking into each other’s eyes as we kiss and talk and laugh until the early afternoon, where time beckons us to make pancakes for lunch and coffee to help us wake up and be “productive” for that day.
You know what I want? I want to absorb you. I want you to know what I know and I want to know what you know. I want to get lost in your thoughts, your words, and your stories as I lay my head in your lap, falling asleep as you run your mesmerizing hands through my hair, putting me in a state of trance that I’d rather not wake from.
Thing is, I can’t stop thinking about you. I want you because… well… Because I don’t quite know how to not want you. So when I oddly hear your name, or when I catch myself stringing those letters together, my heart forgets how to operate as my pulse heightens and begins to pound — hard. So hard that every bit of me becomes impatient in a way. And then, I’m thinking of you again.
You have this uncanny ability to make me forget about time.
I want you because you and I — it’s really that simple. Those letters forming those words, those words coming together creating a euphony of sounds, as this puffer fish expands in my chest when I think about what “you and I” really mean.
But I don’t want something reasonable, or rational, or well thought-out. I know you aren’t the lucid, practical choice, but you’re what I want. I mean, who wants practical love? Or for it to be realistic? Realistic is mundane, and I want to be anything but that.
I want love. A kind of love that fills my ears, profound and resonant like a bass guitar, that undulates through myself in supple manipulated waves, while my breath expands in the ether, the limbo of my mind, manifesting itself into goose bumps that bring me back into the moment. Once again, thinking about you.
I want love that no one else really loves like anymore; like Carl and Ellie. I want this to be “over-exaggerated”, and oversaturated. I want adventures and stick-to-itiveness. I want this, which may be a lot to ask, but what is not only something I want, but something I need.
I want you to know that my favorite color used to be green. A lively, dark green that resonated life and adventure. How it was purely an abstraction of light and interpretation of myself, bouncing from the visceral cognitive analysis of my mind. I want you to know that I loved green since I could distinguish what colors were what, and what their corresponding names were. I want you to know that now I love simplicity, and the beginning of things. I want you to know that you have altered my neural networks, as I no longer refer to my past lives as a contributor to my fate now, but rather annihilated dust. Because now my favorite color is brown, just like your eyes.
I want to tell you that I love words, and music, and adventure, and ask you what you love. I want you to know that I’m more or less a mediocre writer, and only during 1 to 4 in the morning while I struggle how to manage with everything else the other 20 hours. I want to tell you the feelings of my heart, and risk all my ‘masculine’, ‘stoic’, and ‘tough’ outer shell (that guys are suppose to have) because that is all I can do until you offer me yours.
I want you to know that I love love. That I love being in love. That I never thought I could possibly experience this unexplainable feeling.
I want you to read this one day hidden in the dark recesses of the internet, tip back in your swivel chair and wonder to yourself, “Did he write this about me?”
I want you to know that you’ve made me a sappy romantic. That all these songs make sense now.
I want you to know that all my common, reasonable, rational, cognitive, sensational, conscious, subjective, understanding ‘sense’ has left me and been replaced with this intuitive “tingly” feeling. I have no rational thinking with you and I prefer it that way. Because in that moment of tingles, when I am with you, and you are with me, and our eyes meet in this facilitated fixation, I swear with all those pinky promises I can ever make, we, together, make an “infiniteness” that I otherwise can’t explain. I am never not thinking about you.
I want to do everything with you.
I want you because I can be myself around you; that we can meet in between and join in unison to both our strange nature and laugh about it afterwards.
And that’s quite alright with me. I’d like to get used to that.