I don’t really need you.
I’ll write myself a world and put you in it.
Make love to you every which way – infinite.
Tell you jokes, you’ll always smile.
Within my stories you stay awhile.
But I want you.
Your touch, your breath, your weight, your song, your giggles, your knowledge, your voice, your thoughts, your everything. I want it. All of it. I could never write you justice. My imagination could never be that grand. I want the real thing. Flaws. Fuck-ups. Tears. Drama. Anger. Fists. I want it all. Broken glasses. Tired face. Sick stomach. Empty closets. Suitcases by the door. I want the lonely space you leave behind. The hollow in my pit. I need it – crave it. Must have it. Taste it. Tangle within my sheets. Your imprint on my pillow. Your scent on my night shirt. Your hairs on the sink. I want it all. I need it.