I want to be the summation of your abstractions and admirations,
the epitome of your apparitions and aggressions.
I want to embody two bodies with one subconsciousness–
a logical implosion necessitates desire in motion–
succumbing to synchronous heartbeats and mutual orgasms
in two-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.
I want to wrap my legs around your waist,
wasting no time immersing in you.
I want to relive old fantasies together on a NES emulator,
while mocking my miscalculations
and the malleable mortality
I want you to pick apart my pretentious poetry
in affably affected accents with four part harmony
forgivable footnotes, derailing deflections, and arbitrary asides.
I want to stare into those unflinching eyes
and read your secrets
and fuck your mind.
I want to celebrate our shared insomnia while wrestling
with the potent and puissant questions
of our converging communal culture.
I want to commingle in crepuscular light
with subpar cinema
and inventive savory snacks
while repeating to myself
“It’s just a show,
I should really just relax.”
I want to passively aggressively point out your flaws
through apocryphal apophthegm
which leave cohorts and kindreds
guessing and grasping at straws.
I want to concede to you brushing,
and washing, and pulling my hair–
albeit deleterious desires–
but this devotee has dutifully acquired
and cultivated quite a kink.
I want your flocculent phalanges to slowly trace
the discordant and delicate lines
of my carefully selected ink.
I want you to be the lover
who lies with me, lies to me
like Steve Martin lies to Goldie Hawn,
“but the night is long,
and I am full of tossing ’til the dawn.”