I Want You

I want you because I’d break off pieces of sky for you, 
because I want to believe water can run thicker than blood, 
because your tongue burns the roof of my mouth. 
I want your fingers in my hair, your mouth on my neck, 
to know that yes, I have survived everything leading up to this. 
I want flowers, and I want you to still be in my bed when they’ve turned brown and wilted and we have to throw them in the compost. 
I want to tell you stories of wishing wells and music and burning lamps, 
I want your fingers gripping the middle console as we drive down the highway, have you look at me like I’m miraculous.
I want you the way the moon pulls everything closer, the way it conducts the tides.
I want you unconfined and bursting, I want your skin peeled clean, the rawness of you, the underside of your eyelids, their pale orange veins, 
I want to pull out autumn leaves caught in your hair, to kiss your thighs until they turn into something supple, like a reflection in the river, like milk.
I want to see you standing in the kitchen at midnight drinking coffee from the same mug we’ve had for fifteen years, your feet cold against the floorboards, the light bold and fluorescent and your voice, calling my name. 
I want your mouth against mine, creating a suction too strong to break away from. I want to see a leaf and name it yours, pick gravel from your knees, to hold you when you shake and it’s unbearable, what I would do for you, to you, it’s terrible to feel so wonderfully helpless, like a lamb, like a feather falling, like something soft and innocent.
I want you. I want you to show me things you didn’t know you were capable of, I want to love you so recklessly it opens splinters in my chest.