i want her to whisper poetry in my ear with her native tongue
and single-handedly put the english language to shame.
i want her to translate every syllable and sound for me,
every explicit interpretation and meaning for me
slowly, the way only she knows that i like, against my navel.
i want her to gut my mouth of every nasty, vile phrase
and empty them over the nape of my neck
when she details the deeds she will do in the dark.
i want her fists in the roots of my hair,
commanding my attention as she curves my spine.
i want her tongue in my ear, to hear her warm breath
while i beg for her hands to disrespect me.
i want her hips between my thighs,
begging to know the rhythm of mine.
i want the skin of my neck between her teeth,
carving flesh in a carnal clench.
i want her fingers around my neck
after they’ve been wrapped around my tongue,
thumb tracing the underside of my jaw
while she tells me she loves me
when she knows that she doesn’t
or doesn’t know that she does.
i want to listen to her talk about her dreams while i run my fingers through her hair.
i want to ask her what she thinks about my favorite movie and argue with her until i win.
i want to know what sounds she’d make when i leave a trail along the width of her collar.
i want to know what she thinks about when she looks at the stars.
i want to know what color her hometown is so i can paint myself to match.
I want to tell her i’m afraid of dying alone while she traces the curve of my waist.
I want her to call me divine even though she doesn’t believe in a god.
i want her to be the last thing i see before i dream about her
and the first thing i see after i realize i’m not dreaming.
i want to sing her to sleep when she won’t tell me what’s wrong.
i want to rest my lips against her neck after we sit in silence after a fight.
i want to offer her my body when her shoulder grows cold,
so she doesn’t have to speak to tell me i’m forgiven in a bed too small for the both of us.
i want her to rip me apart, sew me back together, and repeat
until i don’t know where my skin ends and where my sutures begin.
i want to tell you that i wouldn’t let her hurt me if i could see the future.
but i know even if i could see the very moment she rips my heart out of my chest,
the very moment she holds it in her hand, blood spilling through her fingers,
that i would still replay it over and over in my head with a hand between my thighs.
and when it’s all over,
when the mixing of our saliva is no longer sweet,
when we’ve bent to the point of breaking
when we’ve imagined each other’s deaths
when our hearts no longer know a shared rhythm,
i want her to remind me
that this is what i wanted.