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Close to you

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I want so goddamn much from you, but really, I just want one thing.

I just want to be close to you.

Because no matter what else I could want from you, I’ll never want it as much as I want to be close to you.

(I just want to be close to you.)

 

I want to hold you, but I just want to be close to you.

I want to wind my arm around your waist, press myself to you and you to me. I want to push your hair out of the way, and nose at the tiny soft hairs at the nape of your neck. I want to pull you to me from behind when you’re making your gross candy bar coffee. (I want to learn how to make it, so that I can bring it to you in bed on lazy Sunday mornings.)

I want to sleep right next to you, keep you safe from anything that would want to hurt you. I want to whisper sweet nothings into your ear, so that you never have to cry yourself to sleep ever again, because you feel worthless or inadequate. (I want to make sure you never feel worthless or inadequate, because you aren’t and I need you to know that.) I want you to lie on top of me, bury your face in my neck, so that I could kiss the top of your head over and over until I feel your eyelashes flutter shut against my skin. (I want your face to be the last thing I see before my own eyes flutter shut.) I want to curl myself around you, warm you up, breathe in the sweet spiciness of your shampoo. I want your smell to invade my senses, to cling to me so that everyone knows I’m yours. (I want all of you to invade all my senses like you invade all my thoughts, really.) I want my fingers to stroke through your hair, or down your chest, or across your belly. I want to feel your heart beat under the tips of my fingers. I want to feel your chest rise and fall with each breath under my palms.

(I want to wake up to your body next to mine. I want to wake you up with gentle touches, with whispers of dreams, as wisps of the night’s dreams float away from us.)

I want to take you into my arms, pamper you and never let go. I want to be there for you—I want you to call me when you’re sad or worried, and I want to be able to go knock on your door and take you into my arms, pamper you and never let go. (I want you to call me when you’re happy, too, and I want to be able to go knock on your door and take you into my arms, pamper you and never let go.) (I want you to be able to come knock on my door, too.)

I want to press myself so close to you so that you can barely breathe if you ever feel like you’re breaking apart. (I want you to always know I’ll always be there for you.)

I want to smother you with my weight and spin you around until we collapse onto the ground below us, dizzy and laughing. I want to tackle you into a mound of pillows and tickle you until you can’t breathe. I want to find the spots on your body that make you squeal the most, that make you giggle the loudest, that leave you the most disheveled and lovely.

Your hand. I want to hold that, too.

 

I want to kiss you, but I just want to be close to you.

I want to bring our intertwined hands up to my mouth and kiss all of your knuckles, your palm and the pads of your fingers.

I want to press my lips to every inch of your face. I want to press kisses onto your cheeks, see if they’ll be warm from your blush. (I want to make you blush. I wouldn’t give up until I succeeded.) I want to kiss your eyelids as you wake up, or at night when we’re both loopy from fatigue, before we fall asleep in each other’s arms. I want to kiss your eyebrows, the ones you always raise at me when you see me do something that amuses you. (I want to kiss the little furrow away from in between them.) (I want to kiss that fucking infuriating—fucking infuriatingly hot—sneer off your face, too.)

I want to come home to you after a long day, and snog you into the couch. I want to pull away (I’d never want to pull away) and let my lips linger over yours, barely grazing, barely there. I want to let my eyes roam across your face first, so that I can memorise all its sharp cuts and soft curves even better. I want to remember how you look below me forever. I want to lower myself softly, then, closer, take your bottom lip between my teeth and pull, but always gently. I want to deposit the most delicate, tiny kisses onto your mouth, before trailing my tongue across it.

I want to know if your lips are as soft as they look, if they’re as cold as you say the rest of you is. I want to lick into you and I want to know what you’d taste like.

I want to know what your lips locked between mine would feel like.

I want to know how you’d kiss me back.

I want my lips to know your body as well as my hands would, as well as my eyes would. I want to unbutton the top buttons of your fancyass button-ups, to run my hands over the skin there, and then under your shirt, and want to trail open-mouthed kisses down the same path, down your jaw and your neck, across your collarbones, right onto your heart. (I want to feel your heart beat against my lips, too.)

(My heart feels like it beats for yours, sometimes.)

(Your heart—my heart—sweetheart.)

 

I want to have you, but I just want to be close to you.

I want to have you, but I can’t ever be close to you.

(I can’t ever be close to you; I can’t ever be close enough, but I also just can’t be close, because even if I could give you the entire world, we’d still be separated by half of it.)

I’d give up all my other wants if I could just be close to you, because I just want to be close to you.

(I just want to be close to you.)

 

But I guess that’s too big of a want already.