wake me when you want me

Graphic by Charlotte Lawson

Your tongue, wet and warm
I have always felt older than I really am, 
especially with the sun beating 
down on my head like this. 
I feel like you’re not holding my hand 
tight enough but maybe that’s just me, 
insecure as ever. You say wake me 
when you want me, but I want you all the time—
it’s impossible not to in heat like this— 
pressed to my chest, curled into my side,
the rhythms of your breaths pacing mine, 
shallow in marvel at your presence.
I must have done something right
for you to be here. 
The possibility expands like a breath in my chest 
and I let it fill my lungs
(I want you, I want you)
The space behind your ear, 
the hollow of your shoulder, 
the crevice between your eyelid and your nose, 
these are the things I want from you. 
Each inhale and exhale a luxury of forgetting. 
A promise of more. The amplification 
of my own adoration makes it better 
because I believe you.
I’d give you anything you wanted, probably, 
but I hope you never realize it.
I hope you are surprised, every time.
I am yours, every time,
not going anywhere, and now 
we are between summers like sheets 
and I am believing everything you are saying
(I want you, I want you)
You are becoming mine in the way that I was
my mother’s, and I am praying 
that wanting us to be happy is enough. 
You say wake me when you want me, 
so I press my lips to your temple, a gun,
because what I want is larger than you think.
Sometimes the gravity of it all frightens me, 
but right now the moon is big in the sky and 
I want you, I want you, I want you.