For days I wrap myself in your stolen words, in your hidden moments, captured and wrestled into my world. I want to respectfully stand on the side of your home, with an arm and my head sticking in through a window, glimpsing and feeling blindly, roughly at all of the beautiful jewels you’ve accumulated and created over time. I want to knock softly on your window in the morning to see if you’re awake. I want to hold your hand in sleep. I want to give you spaces for you to think and grow, all the while staying within arms reach. I want you. I want you constantly. I can’t shake the hunger. I can’t shake the sorrow I hold for all of my failings and weaknesses. For all of my broken and perforated skin; such a shame, the way your hands halt upon them in the shallow light. I know self-flagellation isn’t the way to secure your heart in steady hands. I know equal mixtures of sorrow and confidence are healthy, even if they rise and fall like oil on water. I know I’m growing constantly in these clothes, and that eventually I won’t feel constrained by last winter’s wool. These are promissory notes clenched in my fist. I will burgeon in time; I will slash myself through with tenderness. And if beneath it all this throb continues, I’ll find you in the elevation. Will you take me as I will be and never again as I was and am?