It is two thirty am, and I am drunk on cheap wine and want. 

I want to know all of your favorite songs. I want to memorize the words to them. I want to know all of your favorite films. Want to watch them until I can quote every line. I want to read all of your favorite books. I want to read everything you’ve ever written. I want to know all of your secrets. Want to know what keeps you up at night. What you regret. Want to know what turns you on. Hope you’re into girls with dark eyes and dark hair. Hope you get off on the need for reassurance and thick thighs and hips littered with stretch marks. 

I want you to read everything that I have ever written. I want to tell you all my stories until they get repetitive. I want you to know the words to all my songs, the lines to all my movies, the recurring dreams that I have. I want you to stay in my bed until you become stiff, and I want to uncoil you, slowly. Want to take my time making your toes curl and uncurl. Want to cover all of you with me until I’m all you can taste, see, smell. Want you to think the answer to 1+1 is my name. Want to mark my territory. Want you to forget every girl that came before me. I don't want to be broken for you. Don't want you to try to fix me the way other men have. I want us to fix ourselves, together. 

I want an apartment in the Bay. The other day, I visited a friend and her husband, and as they stood in the kitchen, kissing and joking around, I thought of you. I thought of an apartment, small and decorated with art and pictures, smelling of incense and candles and weed and wine and you and me. I want to make you my home. I want you to do what no one else has ever managed. I want you to stay.  

I want. I want. I want.