Prospect of You

The prospect of you; rosy, quiet, sneaking cigs in the driveway where you think we can’t see. You bring a newness — a differentiation from the you I’m used to, a separation from the universal “me”, the woman with whom I am comfortable sleeping.

You’re intriguing, a million watt light bulb in a dimmed room full of votives;
A reservoir of darkness hidden by your voltage. Sunshine, sweetness,
a twang of black licorice — I want to taste the combination, but I can see your reservations, taken over night audit, slinking past the front desk.

I want to hear you in phrases uttered at twilight; moonlight across your face, casting shadows in the basement. 
I want to feel you, letting go of demons, letting all your dreams in — 
to know you, not just in the shadows, or in corners at the party, to show you not all “she’s” are like me, not all dreams are out of reach and even if it’s “maybe”, you’ve still received the answer.

You make me wonder if I’ve been taking my reflection at face value; she tells me I am worth it, lips utter, “You are perfect”, but I recognize the discord. But you — the prospect of you — think all the things she says, laugh with the punchline again, make me want to love you, even though all the love I’ve known is empty.

The prospect of loving you, seeping at the brim with a passion I pray you’ll show me. Part of me knows you long to hold me; my remainder writes our story, a thousand different endings, always beginning with you.

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