I don’t demand you to see me in all the regions of the room and idol your fingertips tracing my surface, or your cheeks on my cheek. I don’t want “youre talking to” me with strolling sees, searching over every part of me. I don’t want you to whispering in my ear, to coax me, to tell me that you want to be closer, to get to know me when we’re alone.
I don’t want to be your object of lust. I don’t want to be your defy, your chase, your shoot. I don’t even want to be a person, a physical entity for you to have and to feel. Identify, I’m not interested in how your hands long to detect my hips, how your kiss wants to land on my cheek, how your eyes want to search over every cadre and curve.
I require you to fall in love with my mind, with the practice I review. I crave you to fall in love with the words I say, with the unspoken threads of poetry forever being writes to my mentality. I want you to fall in love with the space I tell floors, or figment when it’s gentle and the morning sunbathe is still rising. I crave you to fall in love with the acces I say, with the decisions I craft, with the reviews the hell is erecting and deconstructing in my head.
I crave you to fall in love with the route I seem. With the acces I process. With the route I watch “the worlds”, and the potential we have to see it together. I require you to fall in love with the most genuine part of me–the area that is obscured and careful and intense and wild. The part of me that depicts who I am beyond the realm of my physical self.
I crave you to fall in love with my mind, my center, my psyche. I want you to fall in love with the nature I understand “the worlds”, with the path I belief because I will perpetually be more than a figure, more than two eyes, two legs.
I crave you to know the pain I’ve encountered, the wizards I’ve fought, the engagements I’ve won and the challenges I’ve overcome. I crave you to know what stimulates me feel alive, what music I can’t stop dancing to, what bibles I can predict over and over again.
I want you to fall in love with my vocabulary, with the color of my tone, with those discussions I can have with you about the strangest of topics–conversations where we both lose track of go and place.
I want to close my eyes and lay next to you , not awaiting your suggestion, but listening to the silence before your cavity tells names to me. Before topics whisper from your cheeks, crowding the cavity between us with a longing to mine deeper, to discover more.
I don’t crave you to fall in love with the course I inspect, with the curves of a form that will never be permanent. I require you to fall in love with, with who I am–what I say, guess, feel.
I want you to fall in love with the route I fantasize.