tell me that.

Tell me I’m beautiful.
Gorgeous, if you’re on your game.
Sexy, if you want to sleep with me.

And then check yourself.
Or better yet, tell me to check myself.

Because then I know you get me.
And I know you can rise.
To my high.
Or to my low
To give me a hand
And pull me up.

And that you get that anyone
Can utter the words beautiful.
Or Gorgeous.
Or Sexy.
To any girl.
To make them think, for a moment, they are something worthy to them.

And all that can mean nothing.

It’s nice for a few nights.
It’s nice for a few weeks.

But I want years.

What I want is for you to know my mind.
And love that.

‘Cause it’s going to outlast the 27-year old body before you.
And out of the few things I still believe in,
That is it.

Years.

So, tell me, you like it.
My mind.
But worship my body,
For what my mind has pushed it to be.

And do battle with that.
Because I will call upon you for it.

Tell me…

You like the way I think.
You like the way I underline and annotate the novels I read.
You like the way I swallow
…and internalize the nonfiction I ingest.
You like the way I get turned on by a well-made meal
Or a well-crafted cocktail.
You like the way I can’t always tell you what I feel,
But I can articulate it in an email.
You like the way you can tell me to write
And right my world.

Tell me that.

And decant the wine
While we make dinner.

And stay.

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