Wanting

My want is captured under the jail cell light, made criminal in my mugshot mooning over you.

I want you to call me compassionate while prostrate at your feet, washing you clean with the love pouring not in trickles but in floods, leaving damp in the walls for weeks after you leave.

Intelligent - this word needs to be traced along the ghostly expanse of my back still tense from more than the weight of books that I carried home from school, that phantom backpack of insecurity with straps pulled too tight.

The diamond shaped imprint from the carpet when I’m on my knees for you should likewise be stamped in your mind, the call to acquire a similar wear and tear on one knee a siren song, declaring me as worthy of your fondness and your future.

Lastly, after all these things have been fulfilled, you may call me pretty. Stereotypically, the burden of beauty weighs on my mind concerning my weight and other predominant features.

However, the external will crumble with time and will expose the foundation you helped me build.

Cemented inside are all the pretty things. They decorate our flat-share future, my former one bedroom hideaway refurbished through plastered phrases uttered by your architect mouth in our time together.

This is what I need from my lover, because when I love it is not the simmer of pot on stove but the molten heat of volcano, all sun-like intensity.

So love me right and baby we will never go wrong.