An Assumption

I want peace.

I want you across the room, shirking your responsibilities, shirking off your shirt.  I want the last bit of purple in the sky to fall into place, when your countenance is going from well-lit to shadow.  I want the sound of traffic to die down, and let an evening fold up its skirt, tuck in its ribbons, unlace long boots so that the laces wrap around tired fingers.

I want solace.

I want a solstice.  An in-between, an example of perfectly cut shapes, an afternoon of hours of you reading aloud.  I want poetry and cantatas.  I want jazz playing loud enough in the next room that I can barely hear it but I can just barely hear it enough to love it.

I want pieces.

I want to go to the salon after they have cut pieces of your hair, and I want to take the cut-off tendrils and put them in an envelope, spritz it with your lotions or perfumes and seal it.  So I can take it and open it up anytime I want to and have a part of you. 

I want doubt.

I want to hear you lecture the mirror.  I want to make you feel that the prism I view you in is the one perfect one.  Never dissected, never diluted.  I want to make you feel the way you feel when you move into the sunspot that is showing through the window and is only small enough for one person…warming, golden, falling so lightly across your skin and you barely notice.  It is like a fingerprint I have left upon you, only seen if powdered and dusted and then compared to all the fingers that have ever touched you and never finding a match.  Because of the uniqueness I make you feel.  Unmatched.  Because that is the way I find you.

I want chaos.

I want a mind at sea. I want a mind adrift, unmoored.  Untied.  Let go.  Unhinged.  Plain and simple symmetry.  Like a glimpse or a glance, a flipped-coin chance.  I want randomness, I want a lottery.  I want to crumple up the day’s notes, the library of hours and time and I want to light a bright red match to it and let it burn in my hands.  I want the sting of you.  A rubber-band snap. 

I want a respite.

I want you to merely know that you bloom in me, you bloom in my mind.  A hot-house flower that is ripe and alive, your surge in your colors, you wake and you move and in your disturbance of air, your mere walk across concrete and gray shapes you color the world in a color unknown…you push open the Do Not Enter door of my mind and dance…you carve your initials in dark hallways, you light candles that seemed so dead and you create such flint-like sparks in your stare.  You waltz through my mind in an unheard sound of music that fills my mind with lead and weighs me down with the luxury of knowing you…and being near you.  At times.