You don’t want to be loved by me.
I will put my arms around your neck and mark my territory. I will want to put my hands all over your body and write pretty poetry on your skin. I will want make a museum of all your belongings, I will want to make a museum out of you. I will want to glide my fingers on those forearms watching how the veins carry your blood to your heart, I will want to do that all day and night. I will want to kiss that face the first thing in the morning and before you sleep and then watch your eyes move while you dream. I will want to be the part of the dreams you watch. I will want to put a picture of you in my purse and look at you when no one’s looking at me. I will want to make a home out of every inch of your body. I will want to draw maps on the scales of your skin and travel along them. I will want to memorize the shape of your lips, eyes and nose and I will want to put in on canvas. I will want to crawl inside your skin and look for the lost love. I will want to open my chest and put myself in your hands in the hope that you’ll preserve me like one those collectibles you love so much. I will want to carve your face like a pumpkin and keep it on the top most shelf.
You don’t want to be loved by me. Because I will never stop pouring and you’ll eventually run out of vessels to collect me in.