What I mean when I say that I want to want you

What I mean when I say that I want to want you,
is that I want to crave the feel of your lips on my skin.
I want to become breathless from your kiss – not because I’m terrified,
but because I’m overwhelmed by the taste of your lips.
What I mean when I say that I want to want you
is that I want the urge to trace your freckles with my tongue
like some erotic connect-the-dots constellations in the night sky.
I want the tug of your fingers through my hair and
the pinch of your teeth on the sensitive skin of my neck.
I want the thoughts in my head while all of this is happening to be
something other than a list of the contents of my fridge.
What I mean when I say that I want to want you
is that I want to want you in the way you deserve to be wanted.
But you can’t force a feeling that’s not there.
So maybe what I really mean when I say that I want to want you,
is actually that I want you to want the way I want you.

I want you to want the fact that sometimes I don’t want to be touched
that I don’t understand the concept of “spooning”
that sometimes I don’t want to hold your hand
because I hate how sweaty it makes my palm.
I want you to understand that none of that means I love you any less.
That sometimes the soothing wash of your words over me feels
better than the brush of your always slightly chapped lips.
I want you to understand that I feel so fucking much
that even though you’re sitting on the opposite end of the couch
I feel you all around me like a dense fog over a still pond.
And I know that I’m asking too much.
I know not just anyone is going to want the way I want them.
But I want you to want to at least try to want the way I want you.

I love you most when

you’re still sleeping. Before your phone awakes—
marimbaing you from slumber. With your
chocolate curls falling gracefully across your forehead—
blanketing smooth skin underneath.
Thick eyelashes dusting the crests of your cheeks—
ballet slipper pink from the heat of our entwined bodies.
With your soft mouth hanging slightly open—
babysweet breaths spilling from raspberry lips.
Collarbones rising and falling—
bluish purple from harsh kisses. With your
butterfly tattoo resting peacefully in the skin
adorning your abdominals—
“it’s because you give me butterflies.”
A thin line of soft hair leading tickling fingers to lands
obscured by secondhand bed sheets—
soft and thin from several washings.
Yes, I love you most when
you’re still sleeping. Before the stress of life awakes—
settling upon your shoulders.