come to my cottage where thereβs no slamming doors and we donβt walk on eggshells and you donβt have to think about how as a child you memorized the sounds of footsteps on the hardwood and who they belonged to and how much to shrink yourself depending on the answer. donβt go back to russia because you always come back to me in pieces and pretend you donβt need to be put back together. i know a place that wonβt break you. come to my house. weβll have so much fun. i want to watch tv with you. i want to knock elbows with you while we brush our teeth. i want to taste your mouth while its still warm from your coffee; to suck syrup off your fingers at the table. i want every mundane luxury weβve never allowed ourselves to have. itβs so private, no one will know. because they canβt. and for now itβs okay; iβm not ready for the world to have us when thereβs so many ways iβve yet to have you. weβd have a week, or even two, and it still wonβt be enough. how do you make up for almost ten years of never seeing a sunrise together. never kissing with morning breath. all the things i might already know if i never left that time you asked me to stay. weβll be completely alone, together, with our clothes in the same laundry basket and your hair on my pillowcase and the enormity of everything i want touching every corner of every room.
