I Want This, I Want You

Sometimes when I spend the night at your house, I wander downstairs while you're shaving and fixing your hair, and I stand in your kitchen in my panties and your t-shirt, and I just look around.

Your things on the counters, your books on the shelves across the living room, your pans hanging from the ceiling.

The little, every day signs of you.

I think about cooking dinner with you in this kitchen when you get home from work, talking about our days and saying normal things like "Can you strain this for me?" or "Would you grab the butter from the fridge, babe?"

I want this. I want you.

Back upstairs I sit on your bed and watch you get ready in the bathroom.

It smells like your deodorant, your shampoo, your soap and your laundry.

I think about brushing our teeth together in the morning before work, at night before bed.

Slipping in and out of our pajamas, the choreographed dance of getting ready to wake up or go to sleep.

I want this. I want you.

When we sleep together, I wake up very early in the morning.

Sometimes the sun is barely straining peaches through the binds, sometimes it's still dark.

But I can tell it's morning because very early morning feels different from very late night.

It sound different, and if you pay attention you can feel the shift.

I lay beside you and listen to you breathe. I look at your face, sleep sodden and peaceful, your hair sticking up at the sides. I imagine falling asleep beside you every night. Whispering in the dark. Messing up the sheets.

I want this. I want you.

Sometimes my heart catches in my throat, and I fight back tears, because I love you in such a terrible way.
I love you in a way that living the most ordinary life would be extraordinary, as long as I was living it with you. Of course I want heart pounding adventure too (who doesn't?) but doesn't it mean something to want to love someone even in between adventures? To want to love someone when they're feverish, or tired. When life is just life and it's not particularly interesting at the moment, it would mean more still because it was ours.
I love you in such a way that I would be happy just to have both our things together on a window sill and a language only we understand.
I love you in such a way that I want to make spaghetti with you, brush my teeth with you, pet you before bedtime and hear you talk dreamily about the house you lived in when you were six. 

I want to know your favorite song, and who your first kiss was, and where you got the scar on your chin.

I want to collect all the seemingly unimportant details about you. I want to be there to adore you over morning coffee and eggs, admire you as you take out the trash, wake up in the middle of the night and kiss you because I love you in a way that just can't wait until morning.

I want this. 

I want you.