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.