Paris in the rain. Florence turning gold. Somewhere the world doesn’t know us yet.
Come as yourself.
No hesitation. No careful distance.
Just you.
Let me hear my name in your voice. Let me learn your eyes, your hands, the sound of your laughter.
Let me discover whether knowing you feels like remembering or beginning.
And God, yes, I would want you.
I would want all that hunger made warm and breathing and real.
Your mouth. Your hands. Your wanting. The night. The morning after.
I would want too much. I know.
I know the difference between wanting and having. Between fantasy and life. Between loving someone and believing love gives us the right to burn everything down.
It doesn’t.
But give me the impossible universe for a little while.
Let me love you there without fear or consequence, with nothing held back.
And when the wanting quiets, stay.
Because beneath all that hunger is something softer.
Coffee in the morning. Laughter across a table. Your hand finding mine without thought.
The beautiful, ordinary intimacy of being known.
Stay long enough for fantasy to become tenderness.
Stay long enough to become ordinary.
And let me look at you, after all the wanting, after all the imagining, I’ll get to think,
@ChampagneOnIce thank you too for sharing it. What was not to like. It struck me like the lyrics to Bob Dylan's Lay Lady Lay, which, I'm pretty sure, was inspired by his unresolved feelings for socialite, Edie Sedgwick.
There's the part where he says, "I long to see you in the morning light, I long to reach for you in the night."
As a listener, I can tell he's speaking from experience and speaking from experience, I can tell how frustrated he is to know that that feeling is out there and possible yet not likely to occur due to forces beyond his control. I sense that same level of frustration in your writing here
I wish you success in quenching your desire and I hope it's better than you've imagined so your fire continues to burn hot
