Today, it is Monday and I want to be waking up with you.
Look — look at all the ways I shake. Look, I want to be good at this. I’m reaching for your hands and you tell me that you’re an earthquake just waiting to happen. I make a list of things I’d rip my stomach open just to do to you:
Take off your clothes and put them back on again. Kiss you awake in the mornings and in the evenings and at three a.m. when the nightmares come tumbling back into our bed. Meet your parents just to tell them that they’ve made a piece of art. Leave your house and take you to the dirtiest parking lot we can find, talk trash about the people that have hurt us both. Kiss you when you start to cry. Kiss you when the moon is full. Kiss you when my mind is empty. Kiss you with the TV screaming white noise in the background, just kiss you, just kiss you all the time.
Look — I’m bad at being loved because the feel of it is like a heart that doesn’t fit right in my chest. Some days I think I will be a cemetery for your touch. Some days I think I will start a war, all for you.
Look — I could be this. All this tender, this open and raw, I could get you inside me like a disease. Be my now, be my tomorrow. Be my five years in a bed we both own. Be my wedding night. Be my testament. Be the dirt they lay on my grave, but baby — let it still be you.
Let it always be you.