i want a love that smells like a musky third-floor walk-up on a sunday morning, floor still sticky with beer, feels like overly-washed cotton blue duvet cover against bare skin with the insert all crumpled at the bottom. i want to wake up, hair slicked to my forehead because we’re too cheap to buy a window A/C unit, arms and legs clammy but still intertwined. i want to whisper secrets to each other in the middle of the night. i want to sleep without nightmares or waking in tears. i want a love that can afford silk sheets and climate control but washes my hair in the shower like we’re short on hot water. i want to let you read my journal and see what you make of it all. i want you to drop me off and kiss me across the center console tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next. i don’t want to tell you my biggest first date fail or two truths and a lie or to show you six photos of myself curated to suggest that i don’t take myself too seriously. i want you to see me with spinach in my teeth and still love me, maybe so much that you don’t want to tell me so you can see me smile so big a little longer. i want you to see me fall apart when my mother dies. i want you to entertain the idea of ending things, maybe talk it over with your therapist. i want to be with you until we can no longer exist without each other, and then until we return to the earth together.
