I wish to have domesticity flood through the windows of my heart -
much like the sunlight does in your bedroom,
the morning after an impromptu sleepover.
Your back is turned towards me
so you don’t know that I’m awake,
don’t see the way my fingers twitch,
barely restraining my coveted need.
Necessity seeps into the flow of my blood,
overwhelming me with the want to trace your outline.
I long to commit to memory the curve of your body.
It’s not enough to simply look
-in the face of the senses
the eyes have always been faltering, deceiving-
but I must.
The start of a new day should always be slow.
So, I bide my time by rearranging the furniture inside my heart,
creating a space solely for us.
I swap out the sheets, get rid of the duvet
for something that fits your colour scheme,
-what’s mine should eventually fade away to accommodate yours.
Droplets of inconsequential information,
that I have treated as jewels, have been savoured for this very moment.
And so, I use these small pieces,
accumulated over the course of our meeting,
as decorative items for our new house,
trying to mimic comfort through familiarity.
Now all that’s left to do is wait
-wait for you to wake up, wait for you to come to me.
I’ve cracked open the window
so, I can potentially hear your approaching footsteps,
left the spare key under the mat just in case the door locks on its own;
I’ve taken all of these precautions, why aren’t you here yet?
Do you not realise that I can’t afford forever.
What should I do, then?
After losing myself in loving you so dearly,
how do I go back to living in the house of my heart,
that was so desperately catered to you?
