Were, are, will always…
I don’t want you to need me. I don’t want to ruin your independence - the very attribute that drew me to you the most; that makes you who you are.
I don’t want to tell you so many things.
Things I think you could be pleased to hear; that would make you purr; make you happy; content.
But I don’t want to poison you.
And so I won’t tell you that you are beautiful; I don’t want you to feel like you need my words in order to know something that’s factual.
…But if you want me…
If there’s something, anything, inside of you that keeps you awake most nights thinking, thinking… Thinking of an infinite you and of an infinite me.
If there is that something – tell me.
Because I want to tell you that you’re beautiful.
I want the breeze to swipe over your smiling face as your warm, soft hair swipes over mine. I want to hold you under the stars-hung by the fishing line- from the off-white, popcorn ceiling-dangling so real that we make believe we own a galaxy-that is your seven-hundred-dollars-a-month-apartment. I want to bite the soft flesh of your pink fingertips and feel your blood flush between my teeth; I want to leave little white dents and marvel at my power and marvel at your willingness to be at the mercy of my power.
But, mostly, mostly – I just want to tell you that you are beautiful.