I want You.

I want your last name. 

Your Sunday mornings and you daily commutes.

 I want your phone calls and your quirks.

 Your sick days and your hair in my sink after a trim to the beard. 

I want your laugh. 

Your arms around my waist when I walk by. 

Your eye contact. 

Your smile. 

I want to find your lost keys. 

Do your laundry. 

I want Sunday IHOP visits. 

I want the other side of the bed to be yours, our fingers intertwined. 

I want our late night conversations. 

I want your silence. I want your heartbeat humming to mine as I fall asleep on your chest. 

I want your electricity bills and rent. 

I want the white powder all in your hair after work. 

I want your twisted past. 

And I want to be your future.