Want

I want him.
This rapt and
mulling want.
That pine, that perish
we all know.

I want him to hum into my ear,
hushed,
beneath my ceiling of stucco.

I want him to stop
bustling, bustling
me, with arms
so his head can rest
at the base of
my neck on
my back.

I want him to reach for my hand
his quiet movement from a calm
I lack.

I want him to map out trails
on soft
skin as we lay
discussing the texture of linen.

I want him to sing to himself
as he walks calmly
through
the kitchen.

I want him to smile against my
chest because my
hand in his
hair lulls him
to sleep.

I want him to photograph
an instant, a
subtle blur of a smile
so he'll have a
moment to keep.

I want him to look at me and even
if it's just for a drop
of time
in an sea of hours:
want
nothing else in
the world.