I want all of these things--and you; You, because you know exactly how I love my oddly patterned tea-cups aligned; You, because when I'm clean you celebrate me, but when I'm messy--you don't mind; You, because you love both the size of my personality and the inner conflict that constantly wrestles inside of me.
I want you.
I want you and a small house, with a cozy wool throw and a sunken in couch.
I want you with pumpkin spice coffee, and sausage migas in the morning.
I want you in a plaid pajama set at Christmas time, with your scrunched, calf-length socks, and your white v-neck underneath.
I want your baggage.
I want to take it from the trunk of our car after the honeymoon and unpack it with you [if you want to], or hide it away in a closet for you [if you don't want to face it just yet].
I want you because you don't mind that my vice is cigarettes.
I want you because you like me without eye makeup. You memorize my golden, my hazel, my emerald strands. I want you because of the freckle on your thumb, and the strength and boldness in your hands.
I want a shed full of canvases, and a slooping stoop with twinkle lights.
I want paint in the carpet, and mud on my shoes, and a garden full flourishing.
I want the smell of your soap on your skin, and to wake up with it on my skin.
I want all of these things
And you.
But mainly you.
And I suppose it's what I've always wanted.
I think I started dreaming you up when I was thirteen years old;
Back when I wrote sock drawers full of poems about imaginary love.
I breathed you into existence with my pen--
And you've always been more than enough.
And as the days are passing, I'm getting older.
And autumn keeps changing and staying the same.
And in her sameness, I think she wants you too.
You, here--
The way it was supposed to be...
The way the melancholic planned it would be:
The way I want it to be--
With all of these things,
And you.
