I want to meet people who are stale and only rustle in laughter, not bathe in it excessively like heavy cologne. I want to read and read and read. I want to be blatantly selfish and vain, and only do things because I feel like it. I want to pollute my body with cellulite and caffeine. I WANT TO BE SMART AND WITTY AND UGLY, and never care why I wasn't pretty.
I just want to be 20 something and modern, where I have dark brown hair that is sharp around my face but so unnoticeable. I want to drink viciously and wear stilettos and starch black dresses. I'll have no one to sleep with on weekdays, but men in dozens on Friday evening. I'll laugh only briefly and bask in the scent of male constantly surrounding me. I will be jealous of you, and die when I'm 31.
For right now, I want you to hold me as close as this skin and bone case will let you. I want to feel your chest thud against mine, and your palms face down on my lower back. I want you to kiss me quickly when your brother is looking in the closet. I want to mess up your hair and then wrestle on your bed about it. I want to tickle the small of your back, and refuse massages from you. The only thing I need is a memory--of us laying together and your eyes, just for a second, met mine.
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