I want to be so full of stories that the ink runs out, that the pages are stained with the frantic, diagonal scrawl of trying to get it all down.

I want to live a life filled to the brim with so many stories that i become the entire nonfiction section of your local library, the one with the chairs in the windows where the sun keeps the carpet warm; the tattered spine of a favourite novel.

I want you to tear the pages out of me and pin them to your wall, ripe with your thoughts scribbled in the margins.

I don’t want to die. Not yet.

I am watching the other lanes of the highway knowing each car holds a person like the hardcover version of a biography; I am grasping at mere glimpses of a single page, too far away to make out any of the words and I don't want us to be that way.

I want to know you like the back of my hand and still sigh with relief at the coolness of your breath on my neck like a summer breeze when the weather is too hot.

Let me make maps of your freckles and connect the dots with my fingertips until the palms of my hands have memorized the atlas of your body like the lyrics to that one song everyone somehow knows how to sing along.

Let me get a few things wrong
and be patient with me for I am still learning how to be human,
but know, that in all my silence and closed covers, I want.