I am saving half my cigarette in case someone comes

I wanted the same thing for all the lovers I have grown distant from: I wish they had lived with me.

I liked the thought of spending my years away in that closer proximity of nothings, where sulking can be as simple as the crumpled sheets of an unmade bed, and the world can be something as easy as the clutter of unfolded clothes all cramped up inside the wooden drawer.

I wanted it to be less tiring — something that would drop in an instant, just because it felt right. Collapse can mean rest when we’ve desperately tried to do nothing but resist the comedown, you know.

Under the mercy of somebody’s fingertips, I wanted my spine to bend without apologies. I dreamt about it under sunlight, during the heat of a moment before the cold nights took over me; I thought about how they could bury their face somewhere in my skin, lonely, but at least on the crane of my neck. I wanted to be able to find them wanting the same things — and if they hid it from me, I wished for them to soften up, their covers blown like the sheer curtains we’d both own. I’ve wanted nothing but to give up possessions and share belongings: to use the same toothbrush and taste the same toothpaste in each other’s mouth when kissing, to use the same conditioner and smell the same flowers from the soap we’d choose.

I would have wanted more time, and I would have taken the long routes more often if we were headed on the same direction home.

I thought that maybe if I could save them through touch, then maybe I’d be saved by theirs too.

I’ve wanted almost nothing else but to touch them longer — but time rarely favors beautiful moments like that.