I wish for this, for the mundane, for the everyday.
It seems elusive for the outlaws in this world, love, the misfits like me. Like you.
I want love. I want to make you dinner.
Flannel shirt unbuttoned low, scruff beard brushing my face as you pull me close. This is the stuff that others have, that I want. This is the stuff I dream about.
Your muddy shoes lie askew in my entry hall, just like you, your fevered touch, your breath hurried on the first step, the step up to my bed, your cock already in my mouth, here. I can never deny you. I want you, too, want too much, want to please, know I please you now, then, tomorrow.
But it is not this, never this, never the trickling down my deepest throat, no not my fingers dug deep into your throbbing holes. Not my climax, the satisfaction of my frantic moans in the night, your tongue on my clit, your cock pumping me white, to limp, still wanting.
I want you, want your skin, the shirt you wore while working, your warm hands in my hair, late in the night, sleepy night.
I want you to want me.
I want you to need me, to wait at my door in the night, late night, night of desperation. Knob Creek sending you to me against your better judgment. I want you to want me in your drunken unconscious moments. I want to be there, then, because I know you know better.
I know you want me, then, know that your mind wanders, that if you had the time, you would run away with me.