I want your insecurities to roll of your shoulders
like rain drops.
Catching them in my hands,
like marbles,
putting them in a soft leather bag,
tucking them in my pocket.
I crave to walk into space with you,
to play on the moon in big klunky space suits,
with moon dust floating up from our feet
like whispers ,
coating our lips so that they become part of our smiles.
I want to take you back to your childhood.
To days filled with sunscreen smell,
first pets,
overly large parkas,
and muddy rain boots.
To the times before you tried to keep up with societies idea of how you're supposed to live.
Before the first few times you were hurt,
finally beginning to build your walls high,
like a fortress.
I want to commit arson,
intentionally burn it down, no matter what the cost.
So I can peer through the wood smoke and see the center of your kingdom,
where you hide your rain drop marbles and your moon dust secrets.
I know it's incredibly selfish for me to write your name with black stones in the salt fields of Nevada  without you ever knowing about it,
and then expecting you to open up your chest,
not your wooden box,
no,
your chest.
Where your heart lies,
and your lungs.
To open up your chest and show me the words scribbled all along your bodies walls.
It's not fair for me to expect it,
especially without telling you that if you did,
I fully intend on kissing them all until they are worn down and faded from your flesh where they float down to your feet like yellow feathers.
It's not fair,
but I'm tired of feeling you fade away,
or get annoyed when you  change to fit in with the people around you.
Why would you change, darling?
When you're so imperfectly perfect.