I would like to make love to you, and again, my tired head in your breast, and again, my strong arms and shoulders lifting your hips up and rocking them, again, both hands turning you and pulling you and finally crushing down into you, again, my sweat and weight upon you. And again: for sex may get boring, but making love does not get boring, but it does get more and more intimate. I would like to notice you noticing other men and remember that I do not own you, or hold you, or have you: I am just a train, running alongside your tracks. And I will not smother you, but I will smother them—with the paper-thin friendliness of a tiger, burning bright. I would like to love you. I would like to love you after the honeymoon. I would like to fight with you and dislike you and judge you and fault you…and remember to breathe and leave. And I would like to quickly fault myself and regret it all and go for a long hard walk, stomping in the woods. And I would like to come back and apologize and mean it, mostly. And I would like to learn from you even as I argue with you, and even if I know you are somewhat wrong, and even if I know I am somewhat wrong. I would like you not to cut your wirey hair, but to wear it long: proudly and tightly but messily the way beautiful old women who like to garden or make art do. I would like to stare into your eyes and I would like to cry but I will not, hopefully. I have spent so many years trying clothes on, that when we set our hearts next to one another and found no fitting necessary—but rather we found you slow and me fast and both of us set against one another in delight: friendship shot full with passion—oh, I knew then that we had something better than tragic love. I would like to give you small gifts for no reason: like an old Oscar Wilde or William Blake book. I would like to take you to the English woods and talk with you in the wooden café with a fire lit in the dark grey stove, it is winter, after a chocolate tasting at a golden old book store, before I lose you. I would like to go on a first date with you, and see you melt into me…until my bad jokes makes me dull and I just want to go home and be me, myself, loving you. I would like to make love to you, and again, and again: I would like to take you upstairs, lifting you up onto my standing lap and seeing you, later, lying on the bed and to readily take you then, again. I would like you to think to “spice things up,” standing, touching your toes. I would like to make love to you in the moonlight, you trying to cool softly so as not to wake up the neighbors. I would like for the loud neighbors on the other side to finally holler in hypocritical anger at 3 am when you have been screaming, and for us to laugh and close the window, it is so hot, I need air, so much sweat. I would like for you to pause as I, from behind, first move with you and you pause to tie up your thick hair out of your face. I would like to watch you walk down the hall, tall, in front of me, naked but for your underwear. I would you to ask me to leave my work and rendezvous in the middle of the day for afternoon sex, it is the best. Camping with friends: I would like to stuff the soft edge of my hand or the pillow or the sleeping bag in your mouth, we are trying to be quiet again, and again failing, your head against the edge of the tent, as you open your innermost heart to me in yearning delight. And I would like to be surprised by your honesty and wisdom and your willingness to understand yourself, like how you understand me. I would like us to not play games, but rather to be simply honest. And, I would like us to play games like Scrabble, or Backgammon, at the pub, sitting in the tall golden booths with dear friends, drinking tea, coffee & beer. Before I lose you, I would like to see you again. I would like to run into you on the street and flirt at you and have you talk over me and laugh, for you are strong like a filly, and you laugh into me as I talk back over you, and we talk over one another as the tide does when it retreats and folds up against itself, old waves relaxing back into new waves rushing. Before I lose you I would like to go to a bad poetry reading where everyone talks loudly and humorously, spoken word-style, because that is what they think poetry sounds like. When really, we’ll smile at one another, for we know what poetry sounds like. It sounds like listening to whales, underwater, on an old vinyl record. It sounds like the nightly crickets we forget to hear. It sounds like the pause before a cherished old song comes on. It sounds like old love and old arguments and going for a walk on a dirt road after dinner. I would like to hold your hand, again. For it is always the first time, when I hold your hand, for I am so in love with you I hope you do not notice, and I have to constantly remind myself that I will likely lose you. For the future is all made up, none of this matters, these are just words. I would like to stop wordplaying, and see you. I would like to belatedly protect you without jealousy or anger, and I would like to debate with you about astrology and I would like to be right but lose the argument, but not give in. And I would like to cuddle with you, despite the late summer heat sweating us both into one another…still we hold closely. I would like to insist on staying with you when you give birth, though I am not good with blood from those I cherish, and I will faint nearly and be a bother and be asked to leave but I will stay and faint and be a bother. I would like to read your handwriting and I would like to notice the way your eyes curve, and your wide white smile, and your simple yet personal style, and I would like to ask you the same damn questions again and again so that you wonder aloud if I do not listen but no, I assure you without reassuring you: I have always been forgetful and it does not mean I do not care. Before I lose you, I would like to grow old with you.
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