I want conversation and car rides,
long nights of green eyes.

I want pastries with whipped cream,
text messages that make me kiss the screen.

I want belted Frank Sinatra,
followed by Moonlight Sonata.

I want gifts I can't afford
that you bought when you were bored.

I want to be calmed and collected,
defended and protected.

I want knowledgeable open-minds,
loquacious words to be defined.

I want my hands to be called soft
and looked at more often

I want my neck to be smelled
then my face to be held.

I want impressed parents,
please share your organic carrots.

I want admiring looks
over the top of Ayn Rand's books.

I want a loss of words
over a song that you just heard.

I want minor disputes
over ideas that don't compute.

I want you to continue to listen
when I question your decisions.

I want button-ups and bowties
that make you different from most guys.

I want time to freeze
and for you to always need me.

I want envious stares
from people who shouldn't care.

I want effortless chemistry
to attract me helplessly.

I want tension filled days,
say you want me with a gaze.

I want my back to be a painting so scandalous
you brush your lips up and down the canvas.

I want clean, boring sheets
to be livened with heat

that I provided.

I want you to be excited

when I come around.

Please don't try and correct me.
I'm not broken. I'm maybe free-spirited and a little out-spoken but I've got methods that water would even soak in and when you confuse me with that ****** J.R.R. Tolkien just because I'm burning herbs that Gandalf would be smokin', I'm going to brush it off like you're just joking and I'll get back to the life that i'm continuously toking, kick it back like it's all easy stroking, become at one with nature like an invisible cloak and be that dream but still get awoken by the ground as if something is choking me by the hands of some celestial bloke and hence why i feel like evoking some people with words like they are subliminal pokes and hopefully I'll please whatever it is that had me initially provoked then.

Perhaps our world
is a small molecule
in a tear
on the eyelash
of one who weeps for us.

                      Ida Werrett