I want your messy hair in the morning, amidst the unmade bedsheets.
I want your crooked smile as well as your sad eyes.
I want your impromptu dinners.
I want the chaos, on your desk, in your shelves, in your story.
I want the noise of the building lot next door.
I want your arms around me as we silently watch the raindrops' way down the window.
I want your foolish jokes.
I want your smile when you hold my hand in public.
I want your desperate eyes when your thoughts overwhelm you.
I want your evening prayers in my ear.
I want breakfast in your flat on early mornings, my eyes meeting yours.
I want these late night talks about God, about humans and places and stories and questions.
I want the expeditious coffee parties on your balcony, between two appointments, just to see each other.
I want your calm breath at night, your bruxism telling stories about your restless dreams.
I want your head in my lab.
I want late night dances in your kitchen.
I want the other side of your bed.
I want your silences.
I want your noises.
I want your story.
I want you.