God Damn I Want to Buy You Stuff

God damn, I want you.

Now that I have seen you, I want you.

No turning back.

But wanting is not nice, wanting is an ugly spectacle.

Wanting is a big peach square,

a tooth in a pit,

and an ugly deckchair pinned beneath a body in clothes,

and the tide.

Wanting is a wrinkly strawberry.

Tiny wriggling things.

Worms in apples.

Wanting is a crumbly façade masking

a hundred rooms, a gate, and a lock.

The ashen brook that tumbles around it like a moat,

and all the monogamous ducks there laughing at me.

Wanting you is a taut cream shoulder,

the space between the rib-cage and the bicep,

a lifetime of work for a minute of living,

a lapping ocean on a sandy beach.

Now that I have seen you, with your perfect fingers clutching that coffee

Like it was passed down through generations,

I want you. Shit.

I want to buy you stuff. I want to demonstrate that I love you.

Or that I could. I want to prove that I could prove that I love you.

Does that make sense?

Have you ever seen someone across the room

and wanted to buy them stuff at first sight?

This could be an issue, since I have no money.

At any rate, here is your refill. Please come into my coffee shop again.

Every day, maybe. Or just a few times a week. I'm flexible.

In a sense, we're already meeting for coffee dates.

I mean, that is not inaccurate.

I hope that no one comes in to meet you.

I hope you keep reading your book there by the window and leave in a melancholy state.

Wouldn't that be great?

Do you like De La Soul? Turmeric tea? The way that leaves turn upside down before it rains?

God damn. I want you. I want to get to know you gently, steadily,

Day by day,

Until one morning we find ourselves knowing each other totally,

Like a leaf that not only knows it's about to rain,

but what that means.