I Only Want You When You’re Sober

I only want you when you’re sober. When you have shed the shadows of your skin. Your sins.

When you’ve lost your liquid confidence, when you’ve forgotten how to be unafraid. When you speak nervously, hesitantly, every word calculated as if it’s fragile, as if speaking too loud will make the truths shatter like glass.

I only want you when you’re vulnerable. When you’re terrified to speak your heart to existence, when your head is clear and what you really want to say bites at you behind closed lips.

I want your heart beating fast, not thick with liquor. I want your eyes open and bright, not red-rimmed and disguised with a loopy smile. Not a body slumped on a couch and an arm draped heavy across my shoulders. Not a kiss you won’t remember, still wet on my lips.

I want you the you that’s tender and thoughtful, gentle and intentional. The you that touches me like a treasure, that traces the birthmarks on my cheeks as if to bless each one.

I want the you that makes my breathing catch, that terrifies me with his strong, conscious eyes.

I want the you that doesn’t look for answers in a bottle. And kisses them onto my lips instead.