I don't want love, not really.
Not the contented domesticity of a
white wedding, a swollen pregnant belly,
a house in the suburbs or a white picket fence.
None of the considerations and
compromises that leave you
resentful, thinking about how
you're losing out on your best
fucking years as you brush your
teeth while your partner takes a piss.
No - what I want is, in comparison,
hedonism. The blaze of passion, white
hot and unquenchable. To worship your
body with my mouth, my hands.
I want to shiver under your touch,
feel the desire of your gaze and
die the little death beneath you.
I want the romance of dancing in the
kitchen, of falling asleep in your arms,
to hold your deepest secrets in confidence,
to know you better than anyone else.
Then I want the drama.
I want you to break my heart,
to shatter it so that I can write
shitty poems for a lifetime.