I Wanted

She stopped to say my eyes were pretty as I paid for coffee.

I believed her over tea that afternoon, rapt in her animated telling of stories and dreams.

Her theory of sadness left me wanting the weight of her thick flowing hair on my body.

Her humid voice surrounded me, and I caught myself not really listening, but realizing everything she said was simply gold and roses, the details only important if I were living it with her.

She told me of some future idea, her words rubbing together like hot wires, lighting Sparks behind her eyes.

Her plans drew lines on a map in my mind, and I wanted to be her passenger.

I heard my voice asking where all these adventures would lead.

Her smile closed and slackened for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and her breath slowly leaked downward out her nostrils. She went inside herself for a moment.

Teaspoons in a ceramic cup nearby.

Murmurs of conversation from across the way.

Desperate horn from a tiny scooter squeezing between cars.

She inflated her smile, widened her eyes, and wrapped me in the most curious bubbling floating laughter.

Her chair scraped as she scooted closer, her hand warming the back of mine, her leg urgently pressing me into the table through her thick soft dress.

She looked over me recklessly.

I wanted her to break my heart.
I wanted to have to find a new Cafe for my morning coffee.
I wanted to look in the mirror and wonder if my eyes were actually pretty.
I wanted to miss the weight of her hair on my shoulders.