Living With You

I think of living with you:

I think of mornings that smell of coffee breath, cigarette breath;

of a food-filled fridge that inspires hours of culinary creations;

of evenings that arouse nothing less than magic;

of cuddling, wrapped like a pretzel,

wondering how we can think the same dream.

I imagine waking up with you:

I imagine sleeping past the horn of our alarm clock;

rushing for a morning fix, a morning kiss;

taking daily triumphs by the dozen

after writing our ambitions on the whiteboard 

hanging on our bedroom wall. 

I dream of having a house with you:

Snowfall shoe-puddle stains mark the floor because of the bitter winter.

Traces of fettuccine carbonara live in the sink from the night before.

Framed cellphone photographs sit on every open surface. 

Independent folk rock sounds ascend to the second floor.

Dirty denim jeans curl up in the corners, lost in piles.

We will be lost when lost is necessary,

but we will attempt to create a love, a life,

from scratch, only to be found in a dwelling

that looks a lot like home.

I think of living with you,

I think of living for you.