Manic - A Book of Poetry

Wanting

 Wanting

I’m dying

to know what you look like in the morning

breath and fumbling for your glasses and phone.

To see you undressing for the shower, an awkward

dance between boxers and ankles kicked in the corner.

To watch as you stare into the fridge because there’s nothing

to eat besides skim milk and mustard.

God I want to know how you organize your sock drawer,

organized or stuffed into the wooden space like you

stuff junk into the trunk of your Mazda.

I’d search through your home cherishing gum wrappers

and pennies lost in couch cushions and condoms hidden

in a nightstand next to the Bible your mom gave you.

And I’m jealous of every girl who has stuck her hands

in your shirt to keep them warm because you radiate

bring home to mom and take cooking classes together.

I’m dying

to know how your hands feel on my thighs

and lips bursting blood vessels on my neck.  Little badges of honor.

And I want to know what I love you sounds like coming from

your voice and Lord I hope this fever burns,

exit my body before I’m left lifeless, a wanting

wanderlust.  A trip to your chapped lips,

traverse your spin, kiss your collarbone.