Love me with your eyes fixed on my naked thighs as I sway on my yoga mat in a room fogged up with incense and marijuana.
Love me till my legs tremble. Till my thighs are soaked. Have me. Gently then, mercilessly. Fuck me into vivid hallucination. Into another lifetime.
Love me and every part of me. I want you to trace your middle name on my spine. And to nudge my feet from under the covers even though you know they’re always cold (probably because you stole my socks, lol). Push my dreadlocks away from my neck so that you can feel my pulse with your tongue. I need you to squeeze my hand when you know I’m trying hard not to cry in public. And I want you to kiss my forehead when you tell me goodbye at lunch when I have a hundred classes to go and you’re done for the day.
Love me with Skype calls on Sunday mornings when all that’s coming from your lips is cigarette smoke and sweet nothings. And of course, your daily excuses about why you blacked out on me, again. Which in all honesty, are tremendously hard to listen to while at the same time asking myself how in the world your eyes are so sleep-laden yet so strikingly beautiful.
Love me even when you contort your face when I simply can’t make up my mind about what to eat. Or when I brush your leg while moving on the bed and you act like I shot your femoral artery. Or even when you listen to me narrate my self-sabotage of how I stuffed my self with shrimp and am now waiting for my body’s fury. And when I keep doing things you tell me to stop doing cause I’ll get in trouble for them. All I’m saying is love me with the same stubbornness I give away.
Love me with waffles on rainy nights, not because I like waffles or rain – and I do – and not because I advocate for breakfast at any time of the day – and I do – but because I love seeing your curls bounce up and down while you’re bouncing up and down jamming to J Cole trying to flip the eggs on the pan. Because even though I’m dying to have waffles, you are still convinced that eggs, toast and soda constitute the greatest trio of all time. But I’ll still gobble them up while listening to your wildest thoughts – I can’t help but smile at that stern face you make and slight nod you do when you say something out of this world and I’m not sure if you’re trying to convince me or the both of us.
Love me. Love me with a promise. Sometimes, I find myself going through all our tickets stubs and notes and papers from games we’ve played. It makes me think that I want more. More movies, picnics, camps, concerts, more road trips. More hoodies and bracelets I am yet to run off with. Even when it comes to abstract things like hours spent browsing Netflix before finally settling on a random show while pledging to have a whole list ready by the next time. I always want to know there’ll be a next time.
Love me and let me love you. I need you to tell me when you are vexed; when you are happy; when you feel lonely; when you need me; when you want me. Heck, when there’s a hideous bat on your door and you’re stuck outside and Catherine isn’t picking up. And, babe? You’ll still find me on the other extreme of the spectrum where it’s all bleak and grey – whether you need stash, Warheads, papers, Oreos or an unlimited supply of hugs from a bony little girl who would ‘throw a lasso around it and pull it down for you if it was the moon you wanted’.
Let me love you. Let me talk to God about you when you’re feeling mentally exhausted and I have no power to move that dark cloud from over your head. You wanna know what I tell her? That it breaks my frail heart that I can’t wave a wand and take all your pain away and that I’ve told you billions of times that I wish I could so much that I think it’s worn out. I tell her that I’m proud of you and your growth and your healing. And I ask her to remind you to be soft to yourself.
Baby. I love you, irrefutably. I love you to the point of delirium. I love you, as if it were an instinct. I love you so much it terrifies me.
I love you. I don’t know how not to.