you want
the sofa
with nine
lives --
made in a
warehouse,
carried into
a bright
room, then
a judge's
office, then
an apartment;
under the
taking off
and
putting on
of clothes.
i want to
paint the
cabinets
white.
every
morning
— naked,
when you
start to put
a shirt on,
i want to
bring you
back in bed;
tell you how
i have never
seen anything
as beautiful
as you.
you want to
tame your
wild hair
in the shower.
i want a
second cup
of coffee in
the evening.
you want
pickles on
your sandwich.
softly,
as the day
becomes
blue, rosé,
then burnt-
orange —
the lights
come on.
i open and
close the
refrigerator;
you put
music on.
somewhere,
in the middle,
i want
you
just
how
you want
me.
the
delicious
smell of
cooking
garlic; a
familiar
song.
you want
me
just
how
i want
you.